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But it wasn’t Simon in my call log.
It was my mom.
Oh, God.
Had she heard the news? Did things like my arrest make the news? I hadn’t even considered that.
“You okay?” Riff asked, watching me with his brows drawn together.
“What? Yeah. Sorry. It’s my mom,” I said. “I have to call her back,” I added, moving toward the front of the house, stealing whoever’s jacket was hanging there, and moving outside.
There was a bite to the air, even though the sun was up and doing its best to warm the world, only to find it was just too far away to really manage the task.
I walked toward the back of the house, hyper-aware that I wasn’t supposed to be caught at the biker clubhouse. As far as the world was concerned, I was supposed to be sitting in my apartment, waiting for my trial.
As soon as I rounded the building, several of Morgaine’s chickens came running toward me, letting out little clucks that I found oddly comforting as they looked up at me, expectant, wanting treats.
“I don’t have anything, babies,” I told them. “I will cut you up some bread later, okay?” I added. Two wandered off, ready to go scratch in the ground for some bugs. The third one, though, hung by my legs, pecking at my shoes.
Sucking in a steadying breath, I hit my mom’s contact, hearing my heartbeat hammering in my ears so loudly that I was worried my mother could hear it when she answered.
“Honey! I’ve been trying to get you for days!” she said, voice sing-song with just a hint of worry.
She didn’t know.
If she knew, she would have that choked voice that she always did when she was worried about something.
“Sorry, mom. I keep losing track of my phone,” I told her. It wasn’t a lie. And my mom had never really been the type to pry for small life details. We’d always been close, but I was pretty sure my mom would never be the kind of mom who wanted to know that you didn’t answer your phone because you were having world-shattering sex with a guy you knew wasn’t going to want to commit to you.
“Oh, that’s okay. I was just worried, is all. We need to start discussing Bayleigh’s baby shower,” she said.
It somehow felt wrong to focus on something so normal when so much was going on that was decidedlyabnormal. But it was comforting too, especially as I listened to my mom prattling on about shades of pink that weren’t ‘overdone’ and ‘tacky,’ but would still be very feminine and sweet.
And were party games cheesy? Or a good way to waste some time?
Would we open gifts at the shower, or save it for later? The internet was, apparently, divided on that.
Bayleigh had requested something upscale, not super baby-themed. Which, yeah, my mom and I were completely on board for.
She’d also demanded food.
“Real food.”
Meaning, not finger foods.
It was her baby shower, and she wanted to stuff her face.
According to my mom, her pregnancy cravings had gotten out of control lately.
I felt like the worst sister in the world not calling to ask how she was. Even if it had only been a few days.
The thing was, talking to them would mean lying to them. Because I couldn’t bring myself to tell them about the arrest, the charges, about my time in county jail, about having to hire a criminal defense attorney. About the potential for me going away to prison.
Neither of them needed that stress right now. Least of all Bayleigh. Who deserved to be having the best, most peaceful time of her life right now. She’d earned that.
I would also be lying to Bayleigh about the whole Detroit thing. We had never had a conversation where she hadn’t asked me about my love life, asking why I hadn’t been seeing anyone.
I couldn’t tell her about Detroit because to tell her about him would entail telling her how we came to start hooking up.
