Someone Else's Fairytale (30 page)

“I don't know.”

“It's this month's issue of the magazine.”

“Could be an old stock interview, from a year ago.”

“He looks like he did in the interviews he did for
Danger Fields.”

“Maybe they do the photoshoots at a different time.”

Mom dropped the magazine on the coffee table. “Call him.”

“I can't.”

“Now.”

“Mom!”

“Just do it.”

“No way.”

“Look, you can't tell me off for never helping you through a crisis and then refuse my help now. I know this isn't you lying near death, but it's as close as you're likely to ever get again. I hope.” She sat forward.

“Mom-”

“There's no 'Mom-ing' your way out of this. Where's your phone?” She swept her gaze around the room and spied it on the counter. Before I could move, she'd crossed the room and snatched it up. “You call him, or I will. How would that make you feel, having your mother call him up?”

“Just stop, okay?”

She sat down next to me and held out the phone. “No. You may know more than me about just about everything, but not men. I've got enough bad experiences to have a doctorate in this, and I'm telling you, you don't let this one go. You'll always wonder. You
will
regret it. If you love someone, and it's a healthy love- no... extramarital issues or anything like that -you tell them. You have to.”

“When have you ever gone through this?”

She frowned. “A guy asked me out when you were about five. A nice guy. Really good looking, knew about the situation with your father and everything and told me he wanted to show me what it was like to be treated the way I deserved. I said no.”

“So you call him!”

“He's married now, honey. Got four kids. And the thing is, I wasn't attracted to him at all, but I've always regretted passing up the opportunity to find out what he meant. If I regret that, you will definitely regret this a million times more.” She pushed the phone at me. “Someday you'll thank me, even if some girl picks up the phone and you hear the shower going in the background.”

“Mom...”

She waved the phone back and forth, enticing me to take it. “And if it goes horribly wrong, you can turn around and yell at me. Just let it all out. Blame me for everything. You won't get a better opportunity.”

I looked at the phone.

“You do love him, don't you?”

“I hate his life.”

“Well, it could be worse. He could be married.”

“Yeah, I'll remember that.” I snatched the phone from her and keyed to my directory. “I will totally blame you when this goes wrong.”

“Fine.”

“And I may not even give you credit if it goes right.”

“Yes, I hear that's often how this mother/daughter thing is supposed to work.”

I called up Jason's number and hit “Send” before I could talk myself out of it. Then I held the phone to my ear as if it were a live grenade. I screwed my eyes shut and clenched my teeth.

“Chloe?” he answered. It was him, his soft, deep voice.

“Hi.”

“Hi. What's up?” He sounded distant, like he didn't want to talk to me.

I wilted inside. “I'm just... just calling, to see how you are.”

“I'm good. How are you?”

“I'm fine.”

“Yeah... that's good.”

Our ability to talk about anything or nothing was gone. There was just dead air.

Mom waved the magazine at me but I pushed it aside. “I'm sorry,” I said. “I shouldn't have bothered you.”

“Do you need anything, Chlo?”

“No, I'm good. Just... just saying 'hi'.”

“Oh, well, it's good to hear from you.”

“Yeah, you too.”

“I'll be out in
Albuquerque
for the holidays. Maybe we could get together?” It didn't sound sincere, just polite.

“Yeah, sure. That'd be great.”

“All right. Yeah, well, I'll call you when I'm in town.” The clear meaning, I was not to call him.

“Okay, cool. See you then.”

“See you. Bye.” He hung up without waiting for my response. I let the phone drop from my fingers and tears welled up in my eyes.

“What did he say?” Mom asked.

I waved my hands dismissively. “That he might call when he's in town for the holidays.”

“That's good!”

“No, he was just being polite.”

“You should have told him how you feel.”

“Mom, I know him; he wouldn't have wanted to hear it.”

She looked like she might argue, but put her hand on my shoulder instead. “You did all right,” she said. “You might still wonder what if-”

“Mom, don't.”

She pulled me in for a hug. “It'll be okay, though.”

I wished I could hit rewind on my life, go back to that night with the ice cream, and take another road, but I couldn't. That moment had passed and was gone. For the first time ever, I cried in my mother's arms.

Mom left town the following weekend, full of apologies about not spending the holidays with me. She was going to meet Ron's family and that made her a nervous wreck.

When she arrived in her new apartment, she called me on Skype. That surprised me.

“What?” I said when I answered. “You have a computer?”

“Yeah.” Behind her was a plain, white wall and the edge of a door frame done up in dark wood. Her apartment was definitely a little dated.

“Since when?”

“Since I bought one from Best Buy.” She looked at me like my question was strange. “That okay with you? I'm not that old. I can download from the internet. They did have the internet when I was your age, you know.”

“I just wondered if Ron got it for you.” Then I remembered that internet was how she'd met Ron. I was slow. Obviously she'd had a computer for quite some time.

“Oh, no. He did give me a present when I moved in. He gave me this.” She held up an ice scraper, the kind that people used on their windshields in the winter.

“Nice,” I said.

“It's got a brush at the other end.” She flipped it over for me to see. “And a mitt for me to put my hand in to keep it warm.”

“That's what he got you?”

“Yeah... he's a little different from Bill.”

Major understatement. Dr. Winters had given her spa weekends and romantic retreats and new clothes. I don't think he even knew how to use an ice scraper.

Mom smiled at it. “It's cold here. There's ten inches of snow on the ground.”

“Oh, wow.”

“So I can really use this.”

“So he's a good kind of different?”

“I think so.” She put the ice scraper down. “We'll see.”

“But you're happy, Mom?”

She nodded. “How are you?”

“Um... heartbroken, but I'm okay.”

“Oh, honey. I'll send you all the virtual hugs I can.”

“Thanks.”

“You need ice cream?”

“No! Sorry, didn't mean to yell there, but no. I'll stick with french fries.”

“All right.” She raised an eyebrow.

“He... the night I told him I wasn't interested... he flew out on a private jet and brought me gourmet ice cream. He even started to spoon feed it to me...”

Mom blinked.

“Yeah, shut up.”

“I didn't say anything.”

“I should look for a guy who'll buy me an ice scraper instead, right? Practical. None of the mushy stuff.”

“Mushy stuff is okay when it's sincere. This-” she held up the ice scraper “-is sincere. He wants to make my life better, but if he sincerely wanted to give me foot rubs and peeled grapes, that's okay too.”

“Peeled grapes?”

“You ever tried to peel a grape?” She looked defensive.

“Noooo. But you're not supposed to make me feel stupid. You're supposed to support me. I told him no because I was on the rebound over some other guy and I wasn't thinking clearly.”

“Okay.”

“I'm hanging up now, Mom.”

“I love you, honey.”

“Love you too. Bye.” I cut the connection. The magazine with Jason on it was still on the coffee table. I picked it up and flipped to the first, two-page spread of him. He's all wrong for you, I told myself. After everything that was right about Matthew, this guy is a step in the opposite direction.

My mother called again. “Yes, hello,” I said.

“Sorry,” she said.

“No, it's fine.”

“That the magazine?”

Dang it! I hadn't noticed that it was in the video frame. I dropped it on the floor. “Maybe.”

“You could call him again.”

“I can't. No. I just need to get over him.”

“It's all right.”

“It's not! I'm reading interviews by him, looking for messages to me. I'm like a million other girls, looking at his picture and fantasizing about him kissing me... or... well...” This was my
mother
I was saying this to. I had to get a grip.

But Mom looked at me like I was nuts, not inappropriate. “Let me explain this to you,” she said. “Millions of other women fantasize about what he's like and read interviews by him and imagine he's talking to them, and they're wrong. They've never met him. They don't even know what he looks like without airbrushing.”

“I don't think they had to airbrush much, Mom.”

“But you know that. You actually know him. He may, in fact, be talking about you in his interviews. How is it that all those other silly girls can think they're sane and
you
think you're crazy? That's backwards.”

“I just want to be over him.”

“Well, I'm sorry. He won't be the last guy to fall for you.”

“Thanks.”

“You're not mad at me?”

“No. I gotta do my homework now, okay?”

“Isn't it the weekend?”

“Mom, it's
me.”

“Oh, right. Well, have fun then.”

“Thanks. Bye.” I cut the connection again.

On Christmas Eve, which was also my birthday, Mom called again, wearing a silly green and red dunce cap, decorated with glitter. She blew a horn and sang to me.

“Did you get my present yet?” she asked.

“No.”

“Oh. Well, it might make you mad.”

“Why? What'd you get?”