To See You (27 page)

A
ll the way home, I cursed myself for lying, my hair freshly washed and curled in beach waves that were beginning to droop from the rain. I stood outside my apartment, not wanting to open the door, flipping the key back and forth between my thumb and forefinger.

I just had to get through the next few hours, and then I was going to take charge.

It didn’t change how much I despised my mom. There was nothing more to say. She’d thrown down the gauntlet and then shown up out of nowhere, her hair done in some weird seventies Farah Fawcett style, and wearing tight jeans. She resembled the twenty-something version of herself I’d seen in pictures.

Great. She’s having some sort of midlife crisis, and my love life is the innocent bystander.

“Hi, Mom,” I said, opening my door. She was the one curled up on my couch, listening to rock and roll and drinking coffee. Not me.

“You look great, Charleston. Let’s see what you’re wearing. He’ll be here soon.”

“I’m not really up for turning this into a big fashion show. I’m going to get dressed and wait in my bedroom.”

Not bothering to remove my wet jacket, I stopped in the kitchen and filled a glass with Pellegrino and stomped back to my bedroom. Of course, my mother had spread out in my living area.

An hour later, I heard the buzzer and my mom yelling into the intercom.

I made my way out in a pair of skinny jeans, knee-high boots, and an eggplant-colored blouse. The event we were going to was a faux picnic, held inside, and only eighty-five percent work-related, like everything in Manhattan. I didn’t think the occasion called for flannel, so I opted for business casual.

My mom threw open my door. “Garrett,” she said, her voice practically a coo as she greeted him before she called out, “Charli, he’s here. Your date.” Her voice carried through my small condo.

I felt like saying,
I can see that
, but I wasn’t an ornery teenager. Just back to being a bitch.

Garrett stepped inside and smiled at me. “Charli, thanks so much for coming with me.”

He was stuffed into one of those tight flannel shirts with the big pockets and rhinestone buttons. He looked so stupid, like a freaking idiot whose secretary dressed him.

“You look great,” he told me as my mom smiled at us with approval, sipping a Bloody Mary.

I wanted to roll my eyes. “Thank you. Ready?”

He held out his arm, but I didn’t take it.

“’Bye, gang!” my mom called out, so cheerful now that she’d gotten her way.

I didn’t bother saying good-bye to her. Honestly, I hoped she was gone when I got back.

“Oh, Charli, come here,” she called out before we were out the door. “One sec, Garrett.”

Of course, she needed the last word.

“You’re taking the pill right?” she whispered into my hair. “Feel free to go back to his place.”

“Enough,” I replied through clenched teeth.

I met Garrett in the hall and we made our way to the lobby. It seemed to take all his strength to pull open the outer door, and I wondered what he looked like under those clothes. Probably a scrawny little boy-man.

I was cringing to myself when I heard a familiar voice.

“Charli?”

I looked up from the floor. “Layton? What? How?”

I fell over each word, landing on a new question each time. We stood still under the awning, protecting us from the pouring rain but not the impeding shame as we stared at each other.

My “date” shifted at my side. “Excuse me? I’m Garrett.”

Oh, now he decides to act like a man?

“I’m Layton.”

As Layton looked back and forth between Garrett and me, my throat tightened, clogged with a combination of fear, tears, and screams.

Oh, wait. Those screams were in my head.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“I missed you, needed to see you, wanted to surprise you. But I’m thinking now you didn’t miss me that much. What the hell?”

I reached out and gripped Layton’s bicep, stabilizing myself but also needing to touch him. He was damp from the rain.

“This isn’t what you think,” I blurted. “I know what it looks like. Please, come in and listen to me. My mom . . .”

Layton shook his head, unable to meet my eyes. “I don’t think I can do that right now.” He turned away from me and pulled his arm from my grasp, leaving my hand feeling as cold as ice.

“Please,” I whimpered.

With all the drama unfolding in front of him, Garrett just stood there staring, not talking or fighting or explaining or defending.

Little boy-man
.

“I have to go.” Layton ran outside on those words and I followed behind. Luck was on his side—a cab emptied right in front of him and he jumped in, slamming the door behind him.

Devastated, I stood on the sidewalk, tears pouring down my cheeks, cold rain pounding onto my shoulders, unable to move.

“Miss, are you okay?”

Soaked and uncertain how long I’d been standing there, I startled and looked up. Apparently one of the last known friendly New Yorkers had stopped to check on me.

I nodded and murmured, “Yeah,” and forced myself out of my stupor.

I looked at my phone. It had been an hour since Garrett showed up at my door to pick me up, and now he was nowhere to be found. My mom was radio silent upstairs in my apartment, and I’d been standing on the sidewalk with the rain dumping on me for close to forty-five minutes.

My feet began to move, and I walked anywhere but home as a tornado whipped up inside my head.

Why didn’t Layton listen to me?

Why didn’t I chase after him?

Why the hell did I just stand there in the pouring rain?

My boots beat the pavement as rain splashed around my ankles. I remembered my adventures with Layton in the city, our time at the beach in California, and the first moment I laid eyes on him again in February . . . looking so different but his personality just as amazing. He’d been right to run out on me. I was a head case.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I looked at who was calling.

“I’m not in the mood, Mom.”

“What happened?”

I ducked into a coffee shop, brushed the rain off my jacket, and sat down at a lonely table.

“Mom . . .” My voice was tangled in my vocal cords and tears. “Why did you keep pushing for it? I went and did what you wanted, second-guessed myself, and now I ruined everything before Garrett and I even went to the damn picnic.”

“Charleston, you can’t keep hauling out to the West Coast for some guy. You’ll move out there for him and lose yourself. You’re a smart woman, a prodigy, went to college early, started to make a fabulous career. Now you meet this schlepper and turn freelance, and want to go off the grid.”

Tears dripped on the table in front of me as I held my forehead in my palm. “Mom, I’m not you, not by a long shot. Was it so bad that you followed Dad on his career? He had goals, and yours were sort of frivolous. Besides, I don’t believe he would’ve stopped you from traveling, seeing things, hearing music. Maybe he would have appreciated going with you sometimes.”

“Do you hear yourself? You talk like you know all about love.”

“Well, I am in love, but now I’ve ruined it. Actually, you had a hand in that. Where the hell are you? In my apartment? I want you gone. Seriously.” My throat was scratchy and my body as cold as ice. I was dead on the inside.

“Charleston, do you ever wonder why you’re named after the city where I met your dad? He was a fling, a guy I met and then decided to tag along with for a while. He was going to Chicago and I’d never been, so I thought why not. Turns out, he’d knocked me up that night we met in Charleston. So, that’s you. And that’s me. My life after you.”

Unable to believe what I was hearing, I swallowed and squeezed my eyes shut.

If I’d thought I was dead moments before, I was six feet under now. Nothing like being twenty-nine when you first find out you weren’t wanted.

She thinks I’m a mistake, that I’m the reason why she couldn’t do what she wanted.

The waitress didn’t ask; she just placed a steaming cup of coffee in front of me and patted me on the shoulder.
Bless her.
I wound my stiff fingers around the mug and let the warmth seep into me.

“Mom, don’t. I can’t.”

“No, you think what I wanted was all frivolous, but it’s what I wanted. And then I had a kid who was just like her dad, smart and goal-oriented, and I was forced to play the role of soccer mom. Why? Because my mom told me to. She said
you have a daughter now
. . . blah, blah. When she died, I said screw it. Time for me to be me and you to be you. You want success, six figures, you get a man in New York. I want to hit the road and go to concerts, and the messed-up part of me can’t do that until you do what I know you want.”

She’s crazy
.

“Honestly, I don’t know what you’re going on about,” I told her. “It feels disengaged. If you want to be free, you don’t have to finish me off like some project.”

“Yes, I do, and then I can be free and live with no regrets. Your dad will be happy. He wouldn’t want you shacked up with some guy—a music guy, no less, from Cali.”

How did I not see any of this coming?

“I have to go, Mom. I can’t do this.”

I disconnected the call and took a twenty from my clutch. Leaving it on the table, I stood and left.

Not sure whether I could face my mom if she was still at my place, I turned the other direction from home and walked. The rain barely cleansed me from the shame and guilt I felt for giving in to my mom rather than doing what I knew was right.

That was for sure, and I couldn’t deny it. No matter how I twisted or turned my words, being a writer wasn’t going to help me this time.

I
nstead of hightailing it back to the airport, I went to my expensive hotel room for one and raided the minibar. After emptying three minibottles of Johnny Walker Black into a tumbler, I knocked half of it back, the burn seizing my throat.

I looked longingly at the chips and nuts, but felt too nauseated to even go there.

Fuck
. I paced the length of the room, trying to think straight, tugging my hair until it felt like it was going to come out at the roots.