Limerence: Chapter 28

“You know, you don’t have to have dinner with my mom. I’m officially releasing you from this boyfriend duty,” I say, blinking against the afternoon sun beaming down on us.

Mobile’s just about the only place in the country that requires a pair of sunglasses in the dead of winter.

Still, I’m thankful there’s a little bit of sunlight to cut the chill that’s rustling the bushes. Mobile’s Botanical Garden doesn’t hit its prime until early spring, but I’ve always found their winter gardens to be especially spectacular.

The swinging bench we’ve picked is especially cozy. It’s cocooned between the dusty pink camellias and the Taiwan cherry trees.

“Does she prefer French cuisine over Moroccan?” Adrian doesn’t so much as spare me a glance as he scrolls through potential restaurant options on his phone.

“I can’t say she’s ever had either.”

“There’s a quaint little French bistro downtown, but the Moroccan restaurant looks more private,” he explains. “There are a few chophouses too, but I doubt anything worth our time’s going to be in this state.” He finally turns to look at me. “Is your mother afraid of flying?”

I blink at him. “Please tell me you’re not about to propose a restaurant that we need to fly to.”

He pouts. He actually pouts. “Why not? There’s this amazing farm-to-table restaurant in Maine, and the best barbecue I’ve ever had in my life in Tennessee. It’d be a short flight. I can charter a private jet for us and –”

Another blink. “You want to charter a private jet? For dinner?”

“It’s not ideal, I know,” he replies. “I’d prefer to use one of the family jets, but if I do, I’ll need to explain why I’m using one of the family jets…”

“Your family has private jets. Not jet. But jets,” I repeat. “Are you sure that word’s supposed to be plural?”

“Well, we have four,” he explains with no more deference than if he was listing off a throw pillow collection. “It used to be five, but my parents gifted the Gulfstream to a some family friends.”

I know that after all I’ve learned about Adrian, private jet ownership should be a more digestible concept, but it’s moments like these – like the Harvard conversation – where I’m reminded just how painfully out of depth I am.

A secretive smile creeps over his mouth as he adds, “You know…I’ll have full access to the Bombardier at Harvard. I can take you anywhere in the world.”

I raise an eyebrow, ignoring the spark of excitement that flares to life in my chest. “You’re trying to sell me Harvard again.”

“No,” he corrects. “I’m just letting you know that we could be spending our weekends in Santorini. Or Dubai. Japan. You spin the globe, see where your finger lands, and I’ll take you there.”

The possibility of it absolutely thrills me – which is why it takes every bit of self-control to pretend like it doesn’t. “Right. Weekends in Santorini. That sounds terrible. Just awful.”

His smile broadens.

“But not tonight,” I continue, desperate to change the subject. “There doesn’t need to be any private jets or fancy dinners in different states. Really, there doesn’t need to be a meet-the-boyfriend dinner at all.” I think about Rick trying to order a Coors Light and complaining about portion sizes at a French bistro.

I cringe.

His mouth quirks up. “So, a local chophouse then?”

I go to argue, but a gust of wind ruffles his hair, and I’m temporarily rendered speechless by how effortlessly beautiful it makes him look.

For me, the southern sun’s a ruthless adversary that burns more than it kisses, but it’s only softened Adrian’s features, warming his endlessly black eyes into a syrupy brown and highlighting the copper hues in his hair.

Even Mother Nature’s charmed by him.

I sigh. “Look, I appreciate the gesture, but it’s not necessary. If you haven’t been able to tell, my relationship with my mother is…” I scour my brain for the right word. “…complicated. She’s one drug or alcohol or shoplifting accusation away from turning my bedroom into Rick’s man cave or something.”

He arches an eyebrow. “All the more reason to impress her then.”

A bitter chuckle escapes me. “I’m sure you already have. Just about anyone but her own daughter’s capable of it.”

“Well, that’s a step-up from my parents. They’re not impressed by anyone.” Unlike me, there’s no resentment buried in his tone.

Probably because his parents have done much worse than be a little apathetic to his accomplishments.

Before my thoughts can stray to the journal and what I read there, I say, “I’m not sure why you’re so hell-bent on spending time with my family, anyway. You’ve already met my mother. And Rick. Trust me when I tell you they’re better in small, infrequent doses.”

Adrian stares at a branch of the large cherry tree sloping over our bench and providing minimal amounts of shade, and his mouth dips into a frown. “To be honest, I’m not entirely sure.”

I shoot him a glare. “You’re not sure why you’re trying to subject you and me – but mostly me – to an uncomfortable family dinner where everyone’s going to have a steak knife at their disposal?”

“Well…” His eyebrows pinch together, and I find myself fighting the urge to reach out and smooth the newfound creases forming on his face. “In any other context, I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t subject myself to an uncomfortable dinner over mediocre steak. I wouldn’t risk an even more uncomfortable conversation with my parents just so I could fly here –” He pauses to swat at a fly that’s dangerously close to landing on my shoulder. “A place that seems to be teeming with bugs in the dead of winter. And the worst tattoos I’ve ever seen in my life. And far too many Confederate flags. I wouldn’t do any of these things if it weren’t for you.” He shakes his head. “It’s like an…impulse. I need to know everything about you. I need to see where you’ve grown up. I need to see your family. I need to see every single part of your life – past and present – till I’m sure I know you better than you know yourself. It’s not a want. I have to.”

His eyes radiate as much intensity as his words, and I open my mouth to respond.

Then close it.

And open it again.

This feels just like it did a few nights ago when he was standing in my bedroom, confessing how out-of-control he felt around me.

Well, that’s what this is, isn’t it?

He’s grasping for control. For understanding. For knowledge.

If he can put me together like a puzzle, he’ll know exactly how to pick me apart, too.

The rational side of me wants to fault him for it. People might be puzzles to solve, but the pieces are meant to be given freely. One by one. And only with time.

You don’t take them. You don’t fly across the country, so you can add a few more to your collection. You don’t force family affairs just for a little more perspective.

But I don’t really have room to talk either.

It wasn’t so long ago that I was the one grasping for control, for understanding, for enough knowledge that I’d be able to solve Adrian. And those pieces weren’t given freely either.

“What if…” I take a deep breath. “What if some of my parts aren’t meant to be examined up close and personal?”

His tone’s a mixture of curiosity and amusement. “What kind of parts are we talking about here, sweetheart?”

“Ugly parts,” I admit. “The kind of ugly you don’t even want to look at. Like so ugly you can’t even bring yourself to sympathize with them.”

I can’t name the emotion that flickers through his eyes, but his voice drops to a murmur that trickles like water down my spine. “Do you think I’m afraid of ugliness?”

My breath catches. “Isn’t everyone? At least a little bit.”

“Do my ugly parts scare you?” There’s that edge to his voice again – the one that makes me feel like I’m in one of those cartoons, a piano hanging over my head, and one wrong word from getting crushed to smithereens.

“I don’t know.” There’s no hesitation in my answer. “I can’t say that I’ve seen them all.”

If I haven’t shown all my cards, I doubt Adrian has either.

And I’d be naive to think what happened with Mickey is all he’s capable of.

For a beat, he says nothing – only stares like he’s trying to look through me, not at me, and then quietly: “You will. Just as I’ll see all of yours.”

Dread curls a knot in my stomach, but it’s not from fear of seeing his ugliness – it’s of him seeing mine.

***

The chophouse that Adrian makes reservations at doesn’t require a private jet to access, but it’s still far fancier than anything I could’ve imagined.

It’s a stately old building nestled in the beating heart of Mobile’s downtown, with forest green furnishings, large windows, and a crystal chandelier that reminds me of rainfall.

There’s a lot of whispering amongst the staff when Adrian gives his name, but a minute later, and we’re seated on a plush green couch in a private room, an “on the house” bottle of red wine from the year 2002 waiting at our table.

I’m already feeling woozy.

“Look at that dress,” Mom gapes from the other side of the booth. “Now I know you didn’t have that hangin’ in your closet.”

I rub the back of my neck. “No, it was a Christmas present from Adrian, actually.” I leave out that the sleeveless black cocktail dress I’m wearing also happens to be vintage Dior.

The fabric hugs my hips like a second skin, but it’s got the same hand-stitched durability I’ve come to expect from designer clothes – and exactly what I’m going to need tonight.

This dress is the closest thing I’ve got to a suit of armor.

“Ain’t that sweet,” Mom gushes, “It’s gorgeous, honey. In fact, I’d probably be houndin’ you to borrow it if I thought it’d fit me.” She chuckles and turns to Adrian. “I’ve been an extra-small my whole life. Only time I wasn’t was when I was pregnant with Poppy here. Poor girl got her father’s hips though. We haven’t been able to trade clothes since she was thirteen.”

And there it is.

The backhanded compliment I knew was coming the moment I sat down in this dress.

I suppose it’s a good thing she didn’t see my red-bottomed shoes. She’d aim for my foot size next.

Fortunately, a few days in a luxurious hotel and away from my mother has left me feeling equipped to handle whatever she’ll try and throw at me tonight.

I muster my brightest smile. “You look nice tonight, Mom.”

She’s chosen an olive green sweater dress that’s even more form-fitting than mine – no doubt one of her “fancy outfits” normally reserved for first dates and new boyfriends.

Rick’s also been stuffed into a suit jacket that must be at least a decade or two old, given the way his burly shoulders are nearly busting out of the seams.

His sour expression brings me more satisfaction than it probably should.

“You both look beautiful,” Adrian cuts in smoothly, an arm thrown lazily over the back of the booth. “I can see where Poppy gets her looks from. To be honest, at first glance, I thought you two might’ve been sisters.”

Mom throws her head back and laughs like it’s a joke – but even across the table, I can tell she’s secretly pleased by the compliment. “You really are a charmer,” she teases. “But you’re not the first to think so. When I was younger, I’d walk Poppy ‘round in a stroller and people would stop me on the street, asking where our mother was. Even got mistaken for twins once.”

I have to bite my tongue to keep from retorting that we’ve never been mistaken for twins.

“And even when she was older,” Mom continues, and I realize that I probably should’ve warned Adrian that Mom’s never-ending youth is her favorite topic. “Nobody would believe me when I’d tell ‘em I was a mother. Not even Rick when we first met.”

I’m thankful for the waiter who drops by to describe the specials – a six-ounce wagyu and whitefish caught this morning – if only to disrupt Mom’s tangent.

“You know, I’m very curious, Mae,” Adrian says as he pours a little bit of red wine into everyone’s glass. Mom tracks the movement, but doesn’t say a word. “About how you two met. I understand you’ve been together for quite some time.”

And here’s Mom’s second favorite topic: her blossoming love story with Rick.

It’s almost concerning how quickly he’s figured her out. Not that Mae Davis is hard to charm as long as you’re working with a Y-chromosome, but still.

I think some part of me was hoping that…

Well, I don’t know what I was hoping for.

I take a sip of my wine, which goes down smooth and lacks the acidic after-taste that all the three-dollar bottles Mom sometimes snags from work seem to have.

“Oh, it’s nothin’ crazy,” she says, but clutches Rick’s hand in hers. “But it was romantic. We met in California. Venice Beach. Almost five years to…well, next week actually. It was right after the holidays. I was lyin’ on the beach, wearing this little red bikini. You remember that bikini, Rick?”

Rick grunts something too unintelligible for me to make out.

“And, so, he came up to me, wanting to bum a beer from, well…” She turns bashful. “I’m not exactly proud of this, but I was there with another man. Nobody serious. Just some guy I was seeing at the time. He had a time-share right on the beach he got to use during the off-season and treated me to a trip. Honestly, I don’t even remember his name.” Her eyebrows scrunch together. “Robbie? No. Not Rhett, either. It was –”

“Ralph,” I cut in. “His name was Ralph.”

Mom blinks. “Right. Ralph. That’s it.” She chuckles. “Poppy’s got a much better memory than I do.”

“Well, you left me with Ralph’s cousin for five days.” It slips out a little more sharply than intended.

“Was it five days?” Her forehead creases even more. “Honey, I think you’re exaggerating. It was, like, two days. If that.”

“It was five.”

Her smile’s primed to cut like one of the knives on the table. “If you say so, honey. Anyway, back to the story…”

I grind my teeth in frustration as Mom recounts Rick’s shameless pickup lines on the beach.

She can’t seriously think it was only two days.

Then again, I do have a better memory than Mom – if only because mine’s not selective.

And I certainly remember that holiday more than others. I spent Christmas Eve helping Ralph’s cousin, Reba, make jello shots for the block party she was throwing – and then promptly snuck off to watch bad cable on the futon in the basement when her guests started to get too rowdy.

“…come a week later, and he’s road-tripping his pickup all the way down to Mobile,” she finishes with another googly-eyed stare in Rick’s direction. “And we haven’t looked back since, have we, Rick?”

“Right,” Rick mutters, and at her expectant look, adds, “Haven’t look back once.”

Mom sighs. “And, of course, he’s really stepped up for Poppy too. Been there more for her than her actual father ever has.”

And here’s my least favorite topic – Rick’s non-existent paternal instincts.

Don’t say anything.

Don’t say anything.

Just survive the dinner.

Adrian puts a hand on my thigh and squeezes, a silent gesture that suggests, while my mother may be oblivious to the tension radiating off me, he isn’t.

It calms me down.

Marginally.

Again, the waiter has impeccable timing, returning to take orders and offering a momentary lapse from Mom waxing poetic about Rick. Adrian orders the whitefish, Mom and I opt for filet mignons, and Rick decides on a thirty-four ounce tomahawk, which reminds that I’ll need to sit here and watch him eat thirty-four ounce tomahawk.

“He’s the glue that keeps our family together –”

And she’s at it again.

“ – though we’ll be empty nesters soon as Poppy traipses off to New York to draw her ‘lil pictures.” Another laugh.

I roll my eyes. “They’re more than ‘little pictures.’”

“Oh, honey, you know I’m just jokin.’” As always, her tone’s as sweet as sugar to disguise the bite of her words. “Your drawings are real cute. Honest.”

I bristle, but this time, it’s Adrian who jumps to my defense. “Actually, Poppy’s an amazing artist. I’ve seen her work. She’s a true natural talent.”

By that, he means he cornered me in my dorm room, flipped through my sketchbook, and then stole it.

Strangely enough, the memory of it doesn’t spark any anger – just the realization that trying to get Adrian in trouble and confronting him at the pool might as well be a million years ago.

“Oh, of course she is.” Mom takes a generous sip of her wine and giggles. “Well, except for –”

My stomach twists. “I don’t think we need to tell that story.”

Mom stretches one hand toward me. “Oh, come on, honey. It was cute. Everyone thought it was really cute.” She addresses Adrian next, her brown eyes sparkling with mirth. “So, one of our old neighbors, this nice little old lady named Ms. Shelby, knew how much Poppy liked to draw and commissioned her to do a painting for Mr. Shelby. It was supposed to be a recreation of their wedding photo. An anniversary present or somethin.’ Planned to pay Poppy and everythin.’”

I have the sudden urge to walk into the kitchen and ask them to butcher me for dinner instead.

“Well, Poppy spends weeks workin’ on this thing. She’s so diligent about it, won’t let anyone see it till it’s done,” Mom explains. “But finally, she presents it to Ms. Shelby and…”

My face floods with heat.

I’m watching a car crash.

My car crash.

“Well, lovely as some of her art may be, that one was not.” Her shoulders shake with barely contained laughter. “I mean, really, you should’ve seen Ms. Shelby’s face when she saw that painting. The proportions were all off – Mr. Shelby had a head the size of a watermelon, the body of a pencil. Ms. Shelby’s nose was massive, and Poppy forgot to include her grandmother’s broach in the drawing, but somehow, managed to paint every single one of the woman’s wrinkles.”

“For the record, I was ten,” I interject. “And had never actually painted anything in my life.”

“That poor woman,” Mom finishes. She’s dabbing at her eyes now, drawn to the point of tears by my embarrassment. “Never said a bad word about it. I mean, her face said plenty, but not a word. She paid Poppy and everythin.’”

This spurns another round of chuckling from Mom and Rick, but I’m not watching them anymore.

With my stomach tied in knots, I’m watching Adrian.

And he’s not laughing.

He’s smiling, of course. The same polite smile that’s slipped beneath the defenses of Dean Robins and Professor Ayala and countless other authority figures.

But his eyes, trained on my mother, are dead.

“What a charming story,” he says.

“See, honey?” Mom turns to me. “You take yourself too seriously with this ‘artist’ thing sometimes. It’s okay to lighten up.”

“Well, she has a right to,” Adrian tells her. “In a couple months, I suspect she’ll be accepting an offer from Harvard’s Art School.”

Silence blankets the table.

Mom blinks at me, her amusement fading. “What?”

Fucking great.

The scent of sizzling fat and melted butter assaults my nose as the waiter drops in again, this time bearing our orders.

Mom doesn’t spare her filet mignon a glance, too busy gaping at me.

I finish off my glass of wine.

“Another bottle, Mr. Ellis?” The waiter asks. “We’d be more than happy to pull something else out of the cellar. A 2004 Bordeaux maybe?”

Adrian waves him off, the waiter disappears, and the tension returns ten-fold.

“Poppy, is this true?” Her entire face has creased like a crumpled napkin. “You’re going to Harvard?”

I shoot Adrian a glare. “Nothing’s set in stone.”

“All but stone,” Adrian retorts. He doesn’t look the least bit remorseful about dropping an atomic bomb right on tonight’s tenuous peace. “Come fall, your daughter’s going to be a Harvard student.”

I kick him under the table.

Rick grunts. “Hey, who kicked me?”

Whoops.

“Harvard…” Mom repeats. “You’re going to Harvard.” This time, there’s no quip, no backhanded compliment to follow.

“Or Pratt,” I add. “I haven’t made a decision.”

“And this is…” She finishes her glass of wine. “For your art stuff?”

“Yes.”

“Jesus…” The full-strength of her southern accent leaks through as she processes the news, but I know better than to think I’ve rendered her completely speechless. If Mae Davis excels at anything, it’s taking good news – but especially my good news – and poking holes in it.

I ready myself for the puncture wound.

She addresses Rick next, her only clear ally left at the table. “And here I didn’t realize you needed to go all the way to New York or Harvard just to learn how to draw some pictures. ‘Specially not with all that natural talent, but…” She finally glances in my direction, a smile splitting her face. “Congratulations, honey. That’s great news. I’m real happy for you.”

I exhale sharply. “Thanks.”

“I just hope they don’t turn you into one of those ‘starving artists,’” she adds, unable to finish a conversation without taking the last word for herself. “At the end of the day, people still need to buy your art, don’t they, honey? I mean, finding clients and all that. Who knows if –”

“I’d buy them.” Adrian looks at me as he says it. “I’d buy every single last one of them.”

As the first genuine smile of the night spreads over my face, my mother silently digs into her steak.

***

The rest of the meal’s no more than polite chit-chat about Mobile, a few prying questions from Mom about Adrian’s family (which he politely skirts), and rare praise from Rick concerning the steak.

I escape to the bathroom as Adrian’s flipping through the dessert menu, my nerves as shot as a dead car battery. I just need to make it through a cake slice’s worth of socializing, and then, I’ll be able to retreat to the hotel with Adrian, curl under the covers, and stuff the memory of this dinner into the recesses of my mind.

That said, tonight could’ve gone worse.

Sure, I can still feel the tension of it beneath my skin, coiling my muscles tight, but nobody dissolved into tears. Nobody stormed out in a huff. Nobody tried to throw any of the expensive cutlery.

Tonight, we narrowly avoided bloodshed, and Adrian, in his attempt to examine every part of me under a microscope, could’ve been a casualty.

I lean against one of the bathroom sinks, close my eyes, and sigh so loudly that it bounces off the forest green walls. At the very least, the moody lighting in here’s a perfect match for my current temperament.

This is as much peace and quiet as I’ve had the past hour.

And then the door swings open.

“Oh, honey. There you are. I was wondering where you went.”

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Reluctantly, I peel my eyes open and face my mother. “I was just checking my makeup, that’s all.” Fortunately, my mascara and dusty pink lipstick have fared far better than my sanity tonight.

She pauses at the sink to my left. “Well, that lip color’s definitely the wrong shade for your complexion, but these are the kind of questions you ask before dinner, honey. Not after.”

She doesn’t spot my glare as she turns to examine her own reflection in the mirror.

Liar.

This lip color looks great on me.

I clear my throat. “Well, I should get back to –”

“You seem really tense,” Mom interrupts. “Is there something wrong, Poppy?”

I stare at her.

Anyone else and I’d think they were just prodding for a reaction.

Unfortunately, with Mom, I know better.

I’m sure, in the time it took her journey from the table to the bathroom, she’s already twisted in the narrative into something that’ll leave her looking far more favorable.

Can you believe it, Rick? I was only expressing a little bit of motherly concern, and Poppy tried to chew my head off about it!

“I’m fine,” I lie. “Really. I’m not tense.”

She reaches into her pleather clutch to re-apply some of her own lipstick. Hers is cherry red. “I bet it’s that dress. Playing dress up isn’t always comfortable, especially when it’s the man who’s doin’ the dressing.”

“The dress is fine.”

“You know, honey, I’m really proud of you.”

What?

“What?”

If Mom can hear the surprise in my voice, she ignores it. “You’ve done well for yourself, Poppy.” A fresh coat applied, she puckers her lips in the mirror. “I mean, tonight’s proof of that.”

The ember of hope that flares in my chest is a very dangerous thing, I know that, but it sparks to life anyway. “Well…I’m glad you think so.” I rub the back of my neck, suddenly unsure how to handle this side of my mother.

An – apparently – proud side.

“As I said earlier,” I continue. “Nothing’s set in stone. I’ve still got to send out applications, so it’ll be a few months before I know anything concrete.”

Mom blinks at me. “Oh, yes, well, I’m proud of that too…” She steps close, grabs my hands, and smiles like we’re sharing a secret together. “But, honey, I was actually talkin’ about your little fling out there. You did good. Charming, rich, and handsome rarely end up in the same gene pool.”

My mind only zeroes in on one word. “Adrian isn’t a fling. He’s my boyfriend.”

She shrugs. “Well, boyfriend. Fling. Whatever you want to call it.”

“He’s my boyfriend.” First the hotel manager, now my mother – I might as well stick a label to Adrian’s forehead to erase any more confusion.

“Regardless,” she says, “You remind me of myself when I was your age. Well, before…”

Me.

“I mean, I was startin’ to lose hope you had any of my charm when you came home three summers in a row without any suitors.” Her voice drops to a delighted whisper. “Now I see you had your eye on a bigger fish this whole time.”

She might as well have doused that single ember in cold water.

“No, it’s not…” I shake my head. “It’s not like that.”

She cocks an eyebrow. “You don’t need to be coy, honey. I’m happy for you.” Her gaze slides down my dress. “Gettin’ him to come all this way for the holidays, this dinner, and that dress…you’re clearly gettin’ your money’s worth for as long as he sticks around.”

I drop her hands and take a step back. “That’s not what this is. I’m not conning Adrian for money.”

“I didn’t say you were,” she argues. “I’m sure, whatever money that boy’s spent, it’s of his own free will. You probably haven’t asked for a thing.”

“I haven’t.” I hate how defensive I sound when my mother’s just doing what she does best – trying to poke holes in the pieces of my life.

“And I wouldn’t judge you if you had, honey,” she says, a gentle tenor to her voice. Like I’m the unreasonable one. “Men, especially men like that…their attention’s fleeting. You take what you can while you can.”

Frustration bubbles underneath my skin. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. This isn’t a fling, and Adrian’s attention isn’t fleeting. He’s the one trying to convince me to go to Harvard with him.”

She scrutinizes me silently.

And then she laughs.

It’s not the teenaged giggle she let out when recounting her relationship with Rick or the same mocking chuckle that belittled my art.

This is a jagged, sharp sound packing thirty-six years of bitterness – and I feel every single one echoing off the bathroom walls.

I barely hold back a wince.

“Oh, Poppy,” she drawls. “You poor thing.” She stops just short of me, and cups my face in her hands so we’re perfectly eye-to-eye. “You poor, naïve thing. You don’t get it yet, do you?”

I swallow the questions building in my throat. I’m not going to give her the satisfaction of being curious.

I should just walk out of this bathroom.

I don’t need to hear whatever revelation she thinks she’s come to after a single dinner in Adrian’s presence.

But I still stay.

“I’m sure you think you have somethin’ special with that boy,” she says quietly. “But honey, you need to listen to me. You need to be realistic. This is a fling. You get that in your head now, or you get it in your head three months from now when his attention strays somewhere else.”

I scoff. “You don’t know that.”

“I do know that,” she says firmly. “It doesn’t matter what he tells you, honey. Doesn’t matter what he buys you. Men are attracted to shiny, new toys. In a few months, you won’t be shiny or new anymore, so he’ll starting looking for the next. It’s better you prepare yourself now when –”

“Stop.” I tear my face out of her grip. “The last person I need giving me advice about men is you.”

She chuckles. “Oh, is that right?”

I realize that I’m treading into dangerous territory now, an inch from creating lasting damage I’m not sure I’ll be able to undo.

What I should do is just keep my mouth shut and let her say her piece – just like I did earlier tonight.

Just like I’ve done every other day of my life.

Why is she the only one who’s allowed to inflict damage?

Why do I have to be the adult?

Even now, her arms crossed and chin tilted up in defiance, she’s slipped effortlessly into her role. She can say whatever she likes, knowing I’m the one that’ll quietly stomach it all.

I take a deep breath, years of resentment burning the back of my throat.

Not this time.

“That is right,” I tell her, and surprise flickers over her face. “You don’t get to talk about Adrian like he’s just another loser crashing on the couch for three months. He’s not Ed. He’s not Steve. He’s not Jeremy. And he’s definitely not Rick.”

As I suspected, it’s that last name that triggers Mom. “Don’t you dare say a bad thing about Rick. He’s –”

“He’s what?” I snap. “A free-loader? An alcoholic? A strain on your finances? I mean, honestly, Mom, you look at Rick like he personally hung the stars in the sky, and I’ve never even seen him hang a fucking picture on the wall.”

She clears her throat. “You know, I’d think you have more respect for him given the way he’s –”

“Stepped up?” I laugh. “Right. Rick. Step-dad of the year. Takes me fishing. Calls to chat about my day. Makes sure I get home for Christmas. Offers fatherly advice.” I tap my finger against my chin like I’m thinking. “Oh, wait. He doesn’t do any of those things.”

She opens her mouth.

And then shuts it.

“I know my standards for a father are pretty low considering, well, I’ve never had one, but barely tolerating my presence doesn’t count,” I continue. “Rick doesn’t care about me, and he never will, no matter what you tell me or you tell yourself.”

It probably shouldn’t feel so cathartic to watch my mother visibly wince at my words, but it does.

For once, I’m happy to cut her as deeply as she’s cut me.

“That’s not…” She shakes her head vehemently. Her bottom lip starts to wobble. “You’re just saying these things. You just want to upset me. You don’t want me to be happy. You never have. It’s never allowed to be about my happiness.”

“It’s always about your happiness!” I shout, and then pause, realizing how loud I am. Quieter, I add, “And you’ve made it very clear I’m the reason you’re not. You blame me for not going to college. For being stuck in Mobile. For not finding some nice, white-collar guy that’ll put a ring on your finger.”

“I’ve never blamed you,” she sniffles. “I’ve been the one putting food on the table and a roof over your head. I’ve sacrificed…not that you’ve thanked me for it. Nothing I do is ever enough for you.”

“Nothing I do is ever enough for you,” I counter. “You can talk about sacrifice all you want, but I’m the one who’s always taking second place. I mean, you let me spend Christmas with strangers so you could frolic in California with Ralph. You spent your paycheck on a Christmas gift for Ed. You told Steve I was your little sister just to keep him around.” The long list of grudges I’ve built against my mother comes tumbling out of me all at once. “You were ecstatic about Lionswood, and not because I’d gotten into the world’s best boarding school, but because you finally got to live your child-free fairytale with Rick nine months out of the year. And, tonight, when I bring home someone I care about, you try to diminish that too, but I’m not going to let you project your shitty luck with men onto me.” I’m nearly out of breath as I finish.

Mom bursts into tears – her greatest weapon – but they don’t elicit the usual brand of guilt from me.

If anything, I’m relieved.

And probably ten pounds lighter now that I’m not trying to bury eighteen years worth of mommy issues where nobody’ll ever find it.

She’s still crying as I realize we’ve spent at least ten minutes in here, hashing it out, which means I’ve left Adrian to deal with Rick.

I sigh heavily. “Look…tonight’s been a lot, and I’m sure Adrian’s wondering where I’m at, so I should get back. We can revisit this some other time.”

Probably never.

My hand’s nearly brushing the door knob when Mom’s voice rings out, “Poppy.”

She always has to have the last word.

I reluctantly turn around.

Mascara streaked across her cheeks, she says, “You’re wrong about one thing.” She tilts her chin up. “I’ve had shitty luck with men, that’s true…but what I said earlier? That’s also true. And you can think me the worst mother in the world, but I don’t want to see you heartbroken.”

I shake my head. “I’m not going to entertain this. Adrian’s not a fling. He cares about me. I care about him. We have a future together.”

It feels weird to be speak so confidently about it when, a month or two again, I was sure we didn’t.

“Oh, honey.” Her watery smile contains nothing but pity. “Men like that do not end up with girls like us. They like to have sex with us. They like to date us. They like to buy us pretty things. They may even think themselves in love with us, but at the end of the day, they’ll marry woman with a nicer pedigree. Someone they can take home to their families, show off to their friends.”

I swallow the lump forming in my throat. “Adrian’s not like that.”

“Honey, they’re all like that.”

“Not him. We have history,” I argue. “He wants a future. He’s the one who pushes for it. He’s the one who wants me to come to Harvard. He wants to –”

“He wants to,” she interjects. “Doesn’t mean he will. Promises don’t mean a thing, honey.” She sniffles as she takes another step toward me.

“Adrian’s promises do. He takes them seriously.”

“Have you met his family?”

“Well, no. Not yet. It’s complicated, there’s logi –”

“Has he told you he loves you?”

I hesitate, the question catching me off-guard – but that seems to be answer enough.

“Oh, Poppy.” Even her tone’s full of pity. “He hasn’t even told you he loves you?”

My cheeks burn, and I want to argue, but my mouth’s gone dry.

She closes the distance between us, settling her hands on my shoulders. “Listen to me, honey.” Her nails lightly dig into my shoulders. “Save yourself the heartbreak. Go to Harvard or New York or wherever the hell else for your art stuff, but do not go anywhere for him. That boy might be promisin’ you the world right now, but he’ll never give it to you. They never do – not to girls like you.”

Her eyes bore into mine, and I can tell this isn’t another hole she’s trying to poke. It’s not an attempt to get under my skin.

She means every word.