Behind His Lens(81)

I force a slow inhale and exhale, and when I finally speak, my voice is eerily calm. “Mom, I need you to leave me alone. I’m not ready to be around you, and I don’t know if I ever will be. I’d rather not have a family at all than deal with a mother like you.”

I start to turn to collect my luggage, mistakenly thinking that the whole exchange had hit its peak, but then my mother glances up and I gaze at her icy blue eyes reflected back into mine. I don’t know what I expected to see, but cold, annoyance wasn’t it. “You always had a flare for the dramatic, Clarissa. It was embarrassing when you were growing up, but now it’s just pathetic. No one likes a depressed girl, not even that photographer.”

And with that bomb, she turns on her nude kitten heels and slides back into her limousine, leaving me like she has my entire life: ten times worse than the way she found me.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Jude

It’s been four years since I’ve felt like my life was out of control. Four years since I worked for the magazine. The moment I came back from my assignment overseas, I molded my life so that I could exist and be happy. I worked, I played soccer, and I picked up fast women. I never once felt like I was lacking anything, so why the hell does it feel that way now?

I pick up my pace, practically sprinting down the blistery city streets. The wind is working against me, pushing my body and adding extra resistance. I use it to work through my anger. I press on harder, whipping around the sidewalk and into Central Park. It’s too early for anyone to be here. Even in New York not many people want to get up and run at five AM, especially in fall. Cold air whips through my black fleece jacket, reminding me of the changing seasons. Does Charley like fall? If I had to guess, she would probably prefer fall and winter to springtime. She just seems like she’d rather curl up by a fire with her paintings instead of dancing in a flowery meadow. Although who would even do that anyway?

She’s called me a dozen times in the past few days, but I haven’t answered. She’s even left a few voicemails, and although I should, I couldn’t force myself to delete those. It seems too final. Not to mention, I know I’ll be desperate in a few days. I’ll need those voicemails for proof that she really did care… on some level.

…

As I round the corner back to my apartment, her little blonde head comes into view. It almost looks like a mirage at first because a perfect angel waiting for me at my doorstep seems too good to be true. But there she is with her hands propping up her chin and her knitted sweater pulled up over her knuckles. She looks like a scared animal, but I can’t pretend she’s that innocent. I can’t pretend that she hasn’t been lying to me, or hell, maybe just lying to herself.

“What are you doing here?” I ask as I approach the weathered stoop that leads into my apartment building. The entire warehouse was refurbished a few years back. Each condo has a wide, open layout and floor to ceiling glass-paneled windows.

When she hears my voice her eyes widen and her head snaps to look in my direction.

“We need to talk.” Her blue eyes plead for me to listen.

“Do we?” I ask, crossing my arms.

She bites her bottom lip and glances away for a moment, down toward the bottom of the stoop. I’d be blind if I didn’t notice her lip quivering or her blue eyes starting to cloud with sadness.

“Yes, Jude. Please,” she finally begs.

“How’d you find out where I live?” I ask in a clipped tone.

“Bennett gave me your address.”

“Huh.” I raise my eyebrows sardonically, “good to know where his loyalties lie…”

“Jude…” she protests, not wanting to drag Bennett down with her.

“Can I just speak to you for a few minutes? If you’re still upset with me after, I’ll understand completely. But I can’t let you assume anything my mother said was true.”

I squeeze my eyes closed, taking a deep inhale, and then I sigh and brush past her. The industrial door to our complex slides open after I tap out the combination key, and without looking back, I start heading to my apartment. If she’s that desperate to talk, then she’ll follow me.

Our footsteps echo across the smooth concrete floor and I almost turn around and cave. It’s torture trying to fight the connection we have but caving now won’t do either of us any good.

The second my apartment door closes and we have privacy, Charley starts speaking so quickly that I can barely make out each syllable. Does she think I’m going to kick her out mid sentence?