Sweet Filthy Boy (Wild Seasons, #1)(90)

“Honey,” she repeats quietly.

Another epiphany hits me: I’m not quiet because I stutter. I’m quiet because I’m like my mother.

“Okay, so.” I pull my knees to my chest. “There’s more. And this is why I’m here, instead of Boston.” I tell her about walking the city with Ansel, and our conversations about school, and my life, and what I want to do. I tell her that he’s the one who convinced me—even if he doesn’t know it—to move home and go back to my old dance studio at night to teach, and to attend school here during the day so that I’m as prepared as I can be to run my own business someday. To teach kids how to move and dance however their bodies want. I assure her that Professor Chatterjee has agreed to admit me to the MBA program at UCSD, in my old department.

After taking this all in, Mom leans back and studies me for a beat. “When did you grow up, Lollipop?”

“When I met him.” Ugh. Stab to the gut. And Mom can see it, too. She puts her hand on my hand, over my knee.

“He sounds . . . good.”

“He is good,” I whisper. “Other than the secrecy over the Beast, he’s amazing.” I pause and then add, “Is Dad going to shun me forever?”

“Your father is difficult, I know, but he’s also smart. He wanted you to get your MBA so you have options, not so you’d be exactly like him. The thing is, sweetheart, you never had to use it to do what he wanted. Even he knows that, no matter how much pressure he puts on you to follow his path.” Standing, my mom makes her way to the door and pauses for a beat as I let it fully sink in that I really don’t know my dad very well. “Help me bring in the last couple of boxes and then I’m heading home. Come over for dinner next week. Right now you have other things to fix.”


I’D PROMISED LOLA and Harlow that they could come over as soon as I was moved in, but after unpacking, I’m exhausted and want nothing other than sleep.

In bed, I hold my phone so hard in my hand I can feel my palm grow slippery and I struggle to not reread every one of Ansel’s steady messages for the hundredth time. The one that arrived since I unpacked says: If I came to you, would you see me?

I laugh, because despite everything, it’s not like I can just decide to stop loving him; I wouldn’t ever refuse to see him. I can’t even bring myself to take off my wedding ring.

Looking down at my phone, I open the text window and reply for the first time since I left him sleeping in the apartment. I’m in San Diego, safe and sound. Of course I’d see you, but don’t come until it works for the case. You’ve worked too hard. I reread what I’ve written and then add, I’m not going anywhere.

Except back to the States while you lie sleeping, I think.

He replies immediately. Finally! Mia why did you leave without waking me? I’ve been going crazy over here.

And then another: I can’t sleep. I miss you.

I close my eyes, not realizing until now how much I needed to hear that. The sensation pulls tight in my chest, a rope wrapped around my lungs, smashing them together. My careful mind tells me to just say thank you, but instead I quickly type Me too, and toss my phone away, onto the bed before I can say more.

I miss him so much I feel like I’m tied in a corset, unable to suck enough air into my lungs.

By the time I pick it up again, it’s the next morning and I’ve missed his next three texts: I love you. And then: Please tell me I haven’t ruined this.

And then, Please Mia. Say something.

This is when I break down for the second time, because from the time stamp I know he wrote it in his office, at work. I can imagine him staring at his phone, unable to concentrate or get anything done until I replied. But I didn’t. I curled up into a ball and fell asleep, needing to shut down as if I’d unplugged.

I pick up my phone again, and even though it’s seven in the morning, Lola answers on the first ring.


ONLY A LITTLE over an hour later I throw open the door and rush into a mass of arms and wild hair.

“Quit hogging her,” a voice says over Harlow’s shoulder and I feel another set of arms.

You’d never know it hasn’t even been two months from the way I start sobbing onto Lola’s shoulder, holding on to both of them as if they might float away.

“I missed you so much,” I say. “You’re never leaving. It’ll be small but we can make it work. I was in Europe. I can totally get with this now.”

We stumble into my tiny living room, a mess of laughter and tears, and I shut the door behind us.

I turn to find Harlow watching me, sizing me up.

“What?” I ask, looking down at my yoga capris and T-shirt. I realize I don’t look red-carpet ready, but her inspection feels a little unnecessary. “Ease up, Clinton Kelly. I’ve been unpacking and then sleeping.”

“You look different,” she says.

“Different?”

“Yeah. Sexier. Married life was good for you.”

I roll my eyes. “I assume you’re referring to my little muffin top. I have a new unhealthy relationship with pain au chocolat.”

“No,” she says, moving closer to examine my face. “You look . . . softer? But in a good way. Feminine. And I like the hair a little longer.”

“And the tan,” Lola adds, dropping onto the couch. “You do look good. Your rack, too.”