The Rule Book (Rule Breakers #1)(37)
Times this look made an appearance:
1. Four-hour dance recitals
2. When I told my kindergarten teacher that my mom had special toys just for her bedroom that she wouldn’t let me play with.
3. Any time I asked her to sit through an episode of Toddlers in Tiaras
4. When my first boyfriend picked me up for a date in a ‘77 Chevy truck with a mattress in the bed of the pickup.
So, for the record, I, Lainey Taylor, am officially the world’s worst daughter for choosing work over my sick mom. Now that we had that straight, I could push guilt aside (sort of, maybe) and dig in to my slides. Spreadsheet after spreadsheet, I worked out an algorithm that projected the potential growth based off their followings and social media history.
By the time nine rolled around, I had completed a quarter of the slides I needed to finish before tomorrow evening. I flexed my stiff legs and stretched my arms above my head.
“Coffee break?” Mom asked, her tone hopeful.
“Is that even a question?”
She smiled, this time more genuine. “I’ll make some.” She patted my knee and leaned forward to get up from the couch.
I waved her to sit back down. “Seriously, I can get it myself. You need your rest.”
I went to tuck the blankets back around her feet, but she pushed them away and uprooted herself from the couch. A hurt that I’d never seen before was etched across her features. “I’m not a brittle old lady. I’m just as competent as I was before treatments, and I’d appreciate if you acted that way.”
For a second, my speech failed me. I guess I had been treating her different since her diagnosis, but how was everything supposed to go back to normal when something inside her was trying to take her away from me? “I didn’t mean anything by it. I know you’re tired, and I was just trying to help.”
“I know you mean well, but I want to take care of my daughter, so let me do my job, and you can do yours, okay?” She leveled a look at me that gave the clear vibe not to contradict her, or else.
“Okay.” No use arguing with the woman I’d inherited my stubborn streak from.
She disappeared into the kitchen and came out a few minutes later brandishing two mugs of black coffee. She placed the red mug on the end table next to me, and then she rejoined me on the couch.
A soft sigh came from her end of the couch, and if I wasn’t so engrossed in numbers and patterns, I’d have noticed her stare burning a hole through the side of my head sooner.
“I don’t like how hard they’re working you,” she said, not bothering to hide her lack of enthusiasm toward Starr Media.
I shifted and put my laptop on the coffee table. “It’s part of the job. Can’t really help it.”
“I just don’t want you to turn out like…” Her voice trailed off, but the meaning was there, whether she said the words or not.
I smoothed a hand through my hair. Under any other circumstances, I’d let the comment slide, but I was ten PowerPoint slides past irritable and sure as heck didn’t like being lumped into the same category as my father just because I was overworked.
I blinked hard and looked up at her. “Like what, Mom? Like Dad? Just because I work hard doesn’t mean I’m going to end up running off with someone and leaving my family.” As if I weren’t already medaling in the Shitty Daughter Olympics, this jab really put me in solid gold medal standing.
The Faking It smile faded, replaced with a wobbly frown that wrung out my insides. She stared down at her coffee mug. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have even brought it up.” Her expression crumbled, right along with my spirit.
“Mom, I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, love bug.” She took another deep breath and closed her eyes, looking as if she was fighting to center herself. “I’m going to head to bed now. I’m pretty tired.” She gave my calf a squeeze, and left with another fake smile.
I stared from her retreating figure to my laptop and knocked my head back against the couch. I swallowed past the tightness in my throat and mashed my quivering lips together. Damn, I really hoped this presentation was worth souring what could have been an awesome weekend with my mom.
…
On Sunday, I drove home in the early misty morning. The feeling of disappointing my mom and the unpleasantness of getting in a fight for the first time since ninth grade when she wouldn’t let me shave the side of my head—Thank you, Mom, you were so right—hung heavy over me like the blanketing fog on I-5.
A little past ten, I pulled into the parking garage of my apartment and rested my head against the back of my seat. Was it possible to have more than two places to call home? This was the first time since I’d moved to Seattle that I felt overwhelming relief to be at the apartment—a refuge in the chaotic whirlwind of work, dog walking, boss fantasizing, and mother disappointing.
Zoey’s door was closed when I walked in. I lightened my tread, not wanting to wake her if she was still asleep, and when I got to my room, I dropped my duffel bag and flopped on my bed. Rarely was she still asleep at this hour, but maybe she had a late night with paperwork. I scrubbed my hands over my eyes, willing my aching body to find some energy so I could do a few last minute tweaks to Jackson’s presentation before I sent it off.
I frowned, thinking about the weekend that was supposed to be filled with horrible movies and junk food. Instead, I’d ignored my mom, solidifying my standing as douchiest daughter on the west coast. The only plus side was that I’d had zero time to focus on Brogan.