Penthouse Prince(8)
“Cross my fingers that he stays as far away from me as possible?” I say. “That’s the only plan I’ve come up with so far.”
She purses her lips, holding back a snicker. “Maybe we can get you a disguise. Like those glasses with the fake nose and mustache, oh maybe even a mullet wig.”
Cue me nearly snorting frozen margarita out my nose. Leave it to Sarah Jo to make me laugh, even in the crappiest of situations.
“But, seriously,” she says, refocusing. “I have to ask this and you’ve got to give me an honest answer because that’s in the best friend code handbook. Do you still have feelings for him?”
I chew thoughtfully on my straw as I drain the last of my drink. It would have been easier if she’d asked me to explain physics to her, or come up with the meaning of life.
Do I still have feelings for Lexington Dane? I certainly feel something toward him. Anger? Regret? And a whole lot of confusion. My emotions are more blended than this frozen margarita, and I can’t tease them apart. There’s only one I can identify for certain, and that’s anger. So that’s the one I’m going with.
“The only feelings I have toward him are strong ones of wanting to jam a screwdriver into his balls.”
Sarah Jo smirks, then finishes her drink. “Well, that’s that, then.”
With our glasses empty and our stomachs full of chips and salsa, we pay the check and say our good-byes. I’m an early-night kind of gal with a one drink in public limit. That way, I can always drive home, and I’m never at risk of a parent spotting me in a less-than-flattering state. It’s one of the many important teacher rules that they don’t teach you in undergrad.
“Text me when you get home!” Sarah Jo calls across the parking lot.
I give her a thumbs-up and one last wave before we climb into our separate cars and head off—Sarah Jo toward her downtown apartment, and me to my one-bedroom condo south of the city. She’s always preferred to be in the thick of things, whereas I’m a bit more partial to the peace and quiet. That and the proximity to the beach. I wasn’t kidding when I said that my only plans this summer are to lie in the sand.
Once I’m back in the comfort of my condo, I shrug off my purse and head straight for my closet, ditching my teacher clothes for an oversized tee and fuzzy lounge shorts.
Yes, it’s early and yes, I’m already in pajamas. Sue me for thinking an eight o’clock bedtime on a Friday night sounds awfully good after the day I’ve had.
With my teeth brushed and my skin-care routine complete, I grab my phone from my purse and head straight to bed. No lesson planning, no grading spelling tests, just scrolling mindlessly through social media until I fall asleep. I freaking love summer break.
But before I can begin this evening’s mind-numbing scrolling, a notification stops me dead in my tracks. I have a missed call from an unknown number. And that zip code? I’m pretty dang sure it’s from New York. Not only that, but there’s a voice mail waiting for me.
My cheeks burn hotter than North Carolina in July as I work up the courage to hit PLAY, slowly lifting my phone to my ear. Please be a spam call, please be a spam call, please be a spam call.
That deep, familiar voice buzzes into my ear. “Hey, Corrigan, it’s Lex. Give me a call when you get a chance. It’d be great if we could talk.”
Click. Silence.
That’s it. Just fifteen seconds. No real message, no explanation of what in the world is going on. Just the request that I call him back. A request that I’m going to deny.
If only I could deny the fact that the sound of his voice sent that same electricity dancing down my spine, just like it did all those years ago.
Damn it.
4
* * *
LEXINGTON
After breakfast and the rest of our morning routine, I wrangle Grier into the car and drive to Mom’s. When I arrive, the front door is locked, so I ring the doorbell. A middle-aged woman in purple scrubs answers.
I shake her hand. “Hi, I’m Lex, Bonnie’s son.”
She smiles. “I figured. Your visit was all she could talk about since you called. I’m Gail, her home care nurse. It’s nice to meet you. And who is this cutie pie?” She gazes down at Grier, who’s clinging to my leg.
“This is my daughter. Grier, say hi.”
Grier does no such thing. She just gazes up at the woman with an uncertain look.
Gail takes us to the living room, where Mom is sitting in her recliner, her lap covered with a knitted throw blanket. My heart constricts. Her face looks so pale and drawn, and her hands resting atop the blanket are so thin, and more age-spotted than I’ve ever seen them.
Grier without any understanding of Mom’s health concerns runs over and excitedly climbs onto her lap. “Gamma! Gamma!”
Mom hugs her and peppers her face with kisses, prompting much excited squealing from my little girl. “Oh, I’m so happy to see you both.”
I kneel to squeeze her tightly, disturbed by how diminished and frail she feels in my arms. I already knew what was happening, but now that I’m seeing her in person, the reality that she’s dying hits me all over again, followed by the guilt and fear.
Six months—more like five by now. We have so few moments left together. How could I have stayed away so long? I spent my twenties building my business from the ground up, pouring all my time and devotion into it, and living the high life in New York City in a penthouse that overlooked central park. And now my business is a success, raking in millions a year, but you know what, I’d give it all up if I could go back in time and have my mom healthy again. I’d give up everything.