Sweet Filthy Boy (Wild Seasons #1)(89)

I can hear the shock in her voice when she answers. “Mia?”

“Hi, Mom.” I squeeze my eyes closed, overcome with an emotion I’m not sure I’ll be very good at articulating. My family doesn’t discuss feelings, and the only way I learned was through threat of torture by Harlow. But my awareness of Mom’s strength during my childhood and what she did to help me chase my dream is probably one I should have had a long time ago. “I’m home.” I pause, adding, “I’m not going to Boston.”

My mom is a quiet crier; she’s a quiet everything. But I know the cadence of her tiny gasping breaths as well as I know the smell of her perfume.

I give her the address to my apartment, tell her I’m moving in today and that I’ll tell her everything if she comes to see me. I don’t need my things, I don’t need her money. I just sort of need my mom.


TO SAY I resemble my mother is an understatement. When we’re together, I always feel like people think I’m the Marty McFly version of her that has traveled from the eighties to present day. We have the same build, identical hazel eyes, olive skin, and dark, straight hair. But when she steps out of her enormous Lexus at the curb and I see her for the first time in over a month, I have the sense that I’m looking at my reflection in some sort of fun-house mirror. She looks the same as she always does—which is to say not exactly thriving. Her resignation, her life settling, could have been me. Dad never wanted her to work outside the home. Dad never took much interest in her hobbies: gardening, ceramics, living greener. She loves my father, but she’s resigned herself to a relationship that doesn’t give her much at all.

She feels tiny in my arms when I hug her, but when I pull back and expect to see worry or hesitation—she shouldn’t be cavorting with the enemy, David will be furious!—I see only an enormous grin.

“You look amazing,” she says, pulling my arms to the side to take me in.

This . . . okay, this surprises me a little. I showered under the dull dribble of a motel shower, have no makeup on, and would probably perform crude sexual acts for access to a washing machine. The mental picture I have of myself falls somewhere between homeless shelter and zombie. “Thanks?”

“Thank God you’re not going to Boston.”

And with that, she turns and opens the back of her SUV and pulls out a giant box with surprising ease. “I brought your books, the rest of your clothes. When your dad calms down you can come pick up anything I’ve missed.” She stares at my surprised expression for a beat before nodding to the car. “Grab a box and show me your place.”

With every step we climb to my little apartment above the garage, an epiphany hits me directly in the gut.

My mom needs a purpose as much as any of us do.

That purpose used to be me.

Ansel was as scared to face his past as I was to face my future.

I push open the front door, giant box nearly tumbling out of my arms onto the floor, and I somehow manage to make it to the table in the living-dining room. Mom puts the box of my clothes down on the couch and looks around. “It’s small, but really sweet, Lollipop.”

I don’t think she’s called me that since I was fifteen. “I kind of love it, actually.”

“I can bring you some of the photographs from Lana’s studio, if you want some art?”

My blood buzzes in my veins. This is why I came home. My family. My friends. A life here that I want to make. “Okay.”

Without much more preamble she sits down and looks directly at me. “So.”

“So.”

Her attention moves to my left hand, hanging motionless at my side, and it’s only now that I realize I’m still wearing my wedding band. She doesn’t even look a little bit surprised. “How was Paris?”

With a deep breath, I move to sit beside her on the couch and unload everything in a tumble of words. I tell her about the suite in Vegas, about how I felt it was my last hurrah of sorts, the last fun I would have until some undetermined point when I would snap out of it and magically realize I wanted to be just like my father. I tell her about meeting Ansel, the sunshine of him, and how I nearly felt like I was confessing to him that night. Unloading. Unburdening.

I tell her about the marriage. I skip one hundred percent of the sex part.

I tell her about escaping my life to go to Paris, about the perfection of the city, and how it felt initially to wake up and realize I was married to a complete stranger. But also, that it went away and what came instead was a relationship I’m not sure I want to give up.

Again, I skip every detail of the sex part.

It’s hard to explain the Perry story, because even as I begin, she has to sense that it’s the reason I left. So when I get to the part about the party, and being cornered by the Beast, I almost feel like an idiot for not having seen it coming a mile away.

But Mom doesn’t. She still gasps, and it’s that tiny reaction that unleashes the flood of tears, because this entire time I’ve wondered how huge an idiot I am. Am I a minor idiot, who should have stayed to hash it out with the hottest man alive? Or am I an enormous idiot for leaving over something anyone else would consider minuscule?

The problem with being in the eye of the storm is you have no sense of how big it really is.

“Honey,” Mom says, and nothing else follows. It doesn’t matter. The single word holds a million others that communicate sympathy and a sort of fierce mama-bear protectiveness. But also: concern for Ansel, since I’ve painted him accurately, I think. He’s good, and he’s loving. And he likes me.