Fumbled (Playbook #2)(75)

“What in the world?” I ask aloud.

Because when coffee time is interrupted and you can still feel aching between your legs, talking to yourself is totally acceptable.

I walk to the monitor mounted on the wall outside my kitchen to see who is outside.

“What the fuck?” I ask again, but louder and with some profanity this time. Because years might’ve passed since I’ve seen her and she might be slightly distorted from the doorbell camera, but one does not easily forget the face of a person who destroyed their life, broke their heart, or crushed their dreams.

And for me, Lydia Moore did all three.

So one more time for the people in the back—what the fuck?

Then, before I can fully process what’s happening and what will happen if I let her in, she rings the bell again and then starts pounding on my door.

This, for some unknown reason, pisses me off.

Like, a lot.

And because of that, I stomp my way to my front door, punch in the alarm code, throw my shoes across the living room, swing open the door without thinking, and ask, “Why are you at my house?”

“Poppy, dear.” She aims a condescending lip snarl I think is supposed to be a smile my way. “I see you’re just as lovely as ever.”

Then, like I won’t hesitate to slap an old lady (okay, I’d never slap an old lady, but still), she pushes past me and into my house!

“Hmmm.” She looks around my living room, scrunching her nose like she smells something funny. “How . . . quaint.”

Okay.

She’s really making me reconsider my “no slapping old people” policy.

I ignore her.

“What are you doing here?” I try asking again.

“TK isn’t answering my phone calls,” she says, as if that explains everything.

I stare at her, needing a little more information and a lot more movement . . . movement that moves her out of my house.

“He wasn’t at his home either.” She continues on. “I called Donny and he told me he was staying with you and sent over your address.”

Donny. I’m gonna let him know about himself. And in doing so, there’s a chance even he may cower from what’s running through my head right now.

She’s still talking when I stop thinking of the ways I’m gonna cuss Donny out.

“I thought he must’ve been mistaken when I started driving through the neighborhood and pulled up to this . . . house . . . but . . .” She pauses, not catching on to or fazed by the homicidal vibes I’m emitting. “I guess he was right.”

I wait for her to get in another insult, but she stops talking.

Finally.

“That’s all fine and dandy, Lydia,” I say, not missing the way the vein in her frozen forehead jumps hearing me call her by her first name. “But that still doesn’t explain why you are at my house.”

“Because of you, my son is not speaking to me.”

So I guess she’s just gonna ignore my question.

Also, really?

“You’re the reason your son isn’t speaking to you, not me.” I step into her space, noting that besides a few grays she missed touching up her dye job, she looks nearly identical to the last time I saw her. Tall and lean (TK is not an anomaly in his family) with stunning green eyes and chiseled cheekbones. I might hate the woman, but I can’t deny that even with the addition of too much Botox, she’s beautiful. Her hair is still pulled into her signature chignon, though I did note when she spun around to judge my house, it’s more modern than the one she rocked ten years ago. She looks perfectly polished in a crisp, white button-up blouse, a beige cardigan, and wide-legged jeans cuffed at the bottom. The diamond tennis necklace Mr. Moore bought her for their fifteenth anniversary accentuates her slim neck, and pointy leopard-print flats make her long legs look even longer.

It might look casual, but I know.

She came dressed for war.

And here I am, Frumpy McFrumperson, standing barefoot in leggings (with bright purple flowers scattered across them) I bought from a mom at Ace’s school for a fund-raiser last year and a scoop-neck tee with a paint stain on my boob.

Awesome.

“You most certainly are.” She steps in, looking down her nose at me. “We had a lovely relationship until you showed up, meddling and lying, just as you behaved all those years ago.”

“Lydia.” I look up at her, refusing to be intimidated in my own home. A home that now contains touches of TK everywhere I look. “I don’t know how that whacked-out brain of yours works, but what’s going on between you and TK has nothing to do with me.”

Her head snaps back like she can’t believe I’d dare talk to her in such a manner before her eyes narrow on me.

“I saved him all those years ago when you tried to stop him.” She jams a pale pink nail into my shoulder. “You tried to prevent him from achieving what I always knew he was destined for. And then, all these years later, you crawl out of the gutter you’ve been hiding in and try to bring him down again.” She leans over me more and I curse my short legs. “I stopped you once and I’ll stop you again.”

I count to ten before I respond. Squaring off with angry, bitter mothers isn’t something I specialize in. I’m not one hundred percent sure how to handle this. The only thing I know for sure is I can’t let her see she’s getting to me.