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I’d just picked up my blow dryer when she knocked at my door. “Kali. Are you dressed?”
I started the hairdryer.
It didn’t deter her. Clearly, she’d had enough of my shit, and she was coming in whether I was dressed or not.
Which was why I’d had a lock on my door as a teenager. I’d never imagined needing one in my own home, though.
“Good morning,” I said brightly. “Sorry, I was late. I slept in.”
She took the hairdryer out of my hands, turned it off, and put it on top of my dresser. “And just why were you sleeping in, young lady? And where exactly was that?”
I wanted to tell her there were some things parents didn’t need to know about their kids, but instead I mumbled something incoherent and took a step back.
She pointed to my bed in a wordless order.
I sat down. Like a disgraced toddler.
“Explain to me why your car was parked at Brantley Cooper’s house at eleven p.m. last night and was apparently still there this morning. And why you came in wearing something that looked suspiciously like a men’s t-shirt.”
I paused. “Do you, er…Do you really want me to go into it?”
She waved her hands and sat next to me. “Well, I guess you broke the ‘no cavorting with clients’ rule.”
See? That was a real line, no matter how much he laughed at me.
“Couple times,” I answered. “Oops?”
Mom laughed. “I knew exactly what you were doing there. So did your father.”
“Oops.” That time, I meant it.
“Oh, it was obvious. Every time I mentioned him you got all dreamy-eyed. Like that time you were convinced you were going to marry Justin Timberlake when I took you to see him in concert.”
“That might still happen.”
She rolled her eyes. “Talk to me, honey. I can see you have something on your mind.”
“Can we get coffee first?”
“Sure. I’ll make us some. Come down with me.”
I snagged a hair tie from the pot on my dresser, along with my brush, and followed her down. I took a seat at the kitchen table and did my hair while she made coffee.
A few minutes later, she set two mugs on the table and sat down. She didn’t say a word as I toyed with my braid. She simply sat, drank her coffee, and waited.
“I know we already had this chat. Kinda,” I started. “But, how did you know? That you could take on someone else’s child?”
She raised her eyebrows. The surprise registered on her face for a second before she realized and smoothed out her features. “I just knew. I didn’t wake up one morning with an epiphany that I was Mother Teresa or something.”
“Damn. I think that would have been easier.”
She nodded once. “Very much so. This question tells me that the way you feel about a certain family has changed an awful lot.”
I sipped my coffee before setting it down and wrapping my hands around the mug. I wasn’t cold, but goosebumps prickled over my skin. “I don’t know how it happened,” I admitted. I explained to her what had happened last night, and how easily I’d settled into a role that looked after them both without blinking.
“You love them. The twins.” It was a statement.
I nodded, looking into my mug. “They’re easy to love. Hard work, but easy to love. But, when does that stop becoming a novelty? I did it because I could. Not because I had to.”
“I disagree,” she said softly. “You knew Brantley was working. You knew it was obviously something important—something that couldn’t be interrupted. Someone had to look after the twins, and you did it.”
“But, the responsibility. When it becomes a responsibility and not just a one-time thing, then what?”
Mom studied me for a moment. “You’re afraid.”
“I’m not…afraid,” I said uncertainly. “I’m…I don’t know. This wasn’t my plan. I didn’t want kids. I didn’t want to walk into that house and fall in love with everyone in it.” I buried my face in my hands, taking a deep breath.
There.
I’d said it.
Jumped over the cliff.
Mom gave me a moment before she gently reached over and pulled my hands from my face. She lay my hands on the table and squeezed my fingers, then said in a low, quiet voice, “You don’t get to plan who you fall in love with. I’m sorry, honey, but you don’t. You don’t get to plan who, how, or when it happens. You just have to go with it when it does. If you got to plan it, I never would have fallen in love with your father.”
“You wouldn’t?” I said softly.
“Nope. I’d just got divorced. It was my fault. I was the one who couldn’t have kids. My ex-husband couldn’t deal with it. And let me tell you, honey, I was furious.” She squeezed my hands again as if to make me understand. “I didn’t want to be around kids. I especially didn’t want to be a step-parent. If I couldn’t have my own children, I didn’t want anyone else’s, either.”
