The Reunion(19)

“Satan,” I gasp loudly, catching my reflection. “Dear Jesus, I look like Satan.” My hair is sticking up on all ends, a small amount of blood is dried around my hairline, and yesterday’s makeup is smeared across my face.

Who the hell was in charge of putting me to bed last night? “Oh my God, Mom, you let me go to bed with makeup on? Don’t you know what that will do to my complexion?”

“Before you start snapping at me about your skin-care routine, I will have you know I attempted to wash your face, but you kept—and I quote—‘cannon blasting’ me with your cast arm. You know it’s very unsettling when your daughter treats her broken wrist like a bazooka and points it at you.”

I chuckle. “Sorry, but that’s kind of funny.”

“Oh yes, your father got a real kick out of it.” Mom sniffs the air. “You know, you might be right: I think we need to hose you down before you go for your checkup.”

“Ew.” I clutch my shirt to my chest. “Don’t smell my sleeping air.”

“It’s hard not to. I’ve been in here long enough that you’ve wafted it toward me, and dear, it’s unpleasant.”

“Oh my God.” I stride past her into my en suite bathroom and turn on the shower.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Mom asks from the doorway.

“Uh, taking a shower.”

“You can’t get your cast wet. I’ll have to help you.”

I look my mom straight in the eyes. “Over my dead body will you wash me naked.”



“Was it when you were in Prague?”

“Mom, drop it,” I say from the side of my mouth.

Leaning in, she whispers, “I think it’s a mother’s right to know exactly when her daughter got her nipples pierced.”

This is my worst nightmare. This, right here. Sitting next to my mom, freshly showered and scrubbed—thanks to her assistance—getting questioned about my pierced nipples. I knew coming back to Marina Island would be difficult, but I didn’t think it was going to start like this.

“It wasn’t in Prague.”

“Greece?”

“No.”

“Australia? Those Aussies have a way of convincing people.”

“What? Where did you get that idea from?”

“Their accents. They’re so alluring.”

“You need help.” Desperate for a distraction, I glance around the old converted Victorian home. “When did the doctor’s office switch to this? Who feels comfortable getting checked out in an old mansion? Kind of freaky, don’t you think?” The living room is filled with seats and couches that are far from modern or stylish. And, according to the sign, the “exam room” looks to be in the dining room, shut off by a pocket door. Call me skeptical, but this doesn’t read “doctor’s office.” And yet, no one seems to care.

“Do you seriously not remember anything from last night?” Mom asks.

“No. Why? Did I ask the same question then?”

Before she can respond, the door opens to another room, and a nurse comes out, holding a tablet.

“Palmer Chance, we can bring you back now.”

“Bring me back”? That’s a term nurses use when they’re weaving with a patient through a hallway, not through a doorway.

As I stand, Mom joins me, and I shoot her a look. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Going back with you.”

“Mom, I’m twenty-seven. Pretty sure I can handle a follow-up appointment.”

“Is that so?” she asks with a raise of her brow. “What exactly happened to you, again?”

“You know . . . the whole wrist thing and then, uh . . .” I pause and think about it, but nothing comes to mind. “Ugh, fine. Come on.”

With a smirk, she places her hand on my back, and we walk into the exam room together. I take a seat on the table while Mom takes a seat in a chair. The room is a light-teal color with dark-stained wood, a combination I don’t care for too much. But the curtains are a nice soft touch to the sterile space.

“How are you feeling this morning?” the nurse asks.

Other than trying to scrub the thought of my mom bathing me out of my memory, completely fine.

“Little confused about how this all happened, slightly in pain, partially embarrassed—do you have any medications for that?” I joke.

The nurse smiles. “I’ll ask Dr. Beau.”

Dr. Beau . . . Beau . . . my stomach drops for a brief second before I shake off that feeling. No, it’s just a coincidence. Dr. Beau—he must be new.

The nurse takes my vitals and asks me a few questions, and then she enters some notes into her tablet. “Dr. Beau will be right with you.” She closes the pocket door, and I can hear her still tapping away on her tablet on the other side.

Not wanting to talk about my health, or the bomb that was dropped last night, I revert to an easy topic—the party. “So, Cooper ordered a cake?”

“He did. I believe it’s some sort of butterscotch thing.” Mom folds her hands on her lap as she takes in the exam room. “Those curtains are quite lovely.”

“Butterscotch?” I grimace. “Why would he choose that? God, first an email for invites, now a butterscotch cake? What is going on with him?”