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It hurts to say, and I really,reallywish I didn’t have to say any of it. I wish I had parents who cared about me; I wish my mother wasn’t sitting across from me acting all pretend-shocked that I’m saying all this, like it’s come out of nowhere. I wish it didn’t bother me as much as it does, but I force myself not to show weakness as I stand.
Florence stands too. “Wait, Siena, please,” she says, dropping the offended act. “I’ve been getting a lot of renewed interest since your arrest hit the tabloids. This is my chance! Once I’m famous, we can all be together again!”
Yeah, right.
This was a mistake. At least before, I had rose-colored memories of Mom preserved from childhood. But I’m not a kid anymore, and this meeting with Florence just proved I was right to have doubts about her intentions.
Now every time I think of my mom, I’m not going to remember the dancing in the rain and heart-shaped cookies and bedtime stories. I’m going to remember her sitting in front of me, basically admitting that she couldn’t care less about me—or Gia—unless she can use me to further her own career. If I wasn’t in the media for my arrest, she wouldn’t be here at all, and I would’ve gone through life never hearing from her again.
I grab my jacket from the chair, forcing myself not to cry. Maybe Jason hasn’t left yet, and I can process all these emotions from the safety of his passenger seat. “Goodbye, Mom.”
“Wait, Siena. Don’t go.” Florence rounds the table, grabbing hold of my jacket sleeve before I can put it on. “I need this. Just talk to Lincoln, and you’ll see it’s a good idea.”
NotDon’t go, I’ve missed you.NotDon’t go, we have somuch to catch up on.NotDon’t go, I’m sorry I abandonedyou.It’sDon’t go, I need this.
I pull my jacket from her grasp and keep my tone neutral. “It was nice seeing you, Mom.”
I don’t bother putting the jacket on as I turn and stride toward the door. Behind me, I can hear Florence collecting her things and rushing to catch up to me. She hurries in front of me and forces me to a halt.
“At least let me give you my phone number so you can think about it.”
I thought I couldn’t get any more pissed, but that statement does it. I don’t even have my own mother’s phone number, and the only reason she’d want me to call her now is so I can agree to her stupid documentary.
Not because she wants to keep in touch with me, ask me about my day, share her life with me.
I open my mouth to say no, but instead I sigh and relent. “Fine.”
I think the answer surprises both of us. I don’t know why I say it. I know not to expect anything from Florence, but I’m still stupid me, and part of me still yearns for a connection with her, still wants to make her happy.
Florence’s eyes light up, that beautiful smile back in place. “My beautiful, brilliant daughter! Once you take some time to sit on it and think it over, you’ll see it’s a dream opportunity for both of us.” She reaches into the purse that cost three times as much as my new laptop and pulls out her phone. “Here, enter your phone number so I don’t have to break into my dreadful ex’s house just to leave you a note again.”
As if on autopilot, I take the phone from her outstretched hand and save my number—my real number—and hand it back to her.
She pulls me into another hug, one that this time I’m too numb to return. “You were meant for greatness, Siena. We both were. This is our chance.”
“Right . . .” I say once she releases me. As I pull my jacket on, I can’t stop myself from asking, “Are you going to hang around in King City for a while?”
She chuckles and waves her hand. “OhGod, no. You couldn’t pay me to stay here longer than these last two days. My driver has been outside waiting to take me to the airport. Jim is going to a party tonight. It’ll be the most exclusive party in all of Malibu, and it’ll be great for me to network, maybe cause a scandal or two.” She winks at me, as if any of the scandals she’s caused over the years have been orchestrated on purpose. But then again, maybe they have been. How would I know?
She pulls my hair from under the collar of my jacket before I can and arranges it around my shoulders, touching me with familiarity like it’s an action she does every day. With her hands still smoothing out my hair, she says,
“It was so good seeing you, my gorgeous daughter, but it looks like it’s going to rain, and I want to get out of here before it starts. I’ll call you in a few days.”
There are dark, angry clouds forming outside, and despite still reeling from everything that’s happened today, a smile tugs at my lips. “What? You don’t dance in the rain anymore?”
“Dance in the rain?” She laughs like the thought never occurred to her. “I haven’t done that since you were no taller than my hips!”
I frown at her. That’s impossible; we were always dancing in the rain—it’s one of my best memories with her. “Are you sure? We were always out in the rain, right up until . . . Aunt Julie’s.”
She tugs the ends of my jacket together. “Siena, please. I hate sitting in wet clothes that aren’t made for getting wet. We did it a lot when you were a kid because it was cute and you loved it, but as you got older, I would yell at you to get back inside before you got everything muddy. You never had any sense of urgency when we got caught in the rain. Used to drive me crazy.”
I stare hard at her, like I can look directly into her memories to prove that she’s remembering it wrong. No.
We danced together in the rain every time it rained. I was always outside in it, and she’d come outside and join me, and we’d hold hands and spin around . . . it couldn’t have just been when I was younger . . .
“Anyway, I should get going,” she continues, finally dropping her hands from me. “We’ll connect this week.
Maybe I can send you some notes Lincoln has about the documentary for you to look over, okay? You’ll love it.
