Lizzie Blake's Best Mistake (A Brush with Love, #2)(87)

“Elizabeth, your mistakes are all avoidable. You don’t think. You don’t listen. That’s your problem.”

“No!” Lizzie jabbed her finger at her mom, the words coming hot and sharp from her chest. “That’s your problem. All I ever wanted was for you to love me.”

Her mom sighed. “I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again, I love you as every mother loves her child. I’m not sure why you can’t see that.”

“Because you don’t show that. It’s all conditional.”

“And what would you have me do? How would you have me prove it to you?”

Lizzie took in the almost bored look in her mother’s eyes, the subtle dismissal in the way she tapped her perfectly manicured nail on the arm of her chair, the almost imperceptible arch to her eyebrow that made it all seem like a ruse. How would Lizzie want her to prove it?

It wouldn’t be some grand gesture of tears and declarations. It wouldn’t be a long list of things her mom liked about her.

More than anything, it would just be a sign that the woman gave a damn. Even the slightest sign of distress that her daughter ever questioned if she was loved.

But, looking at this woman, with her perfectly tailored blouse and ramrod-straight posture, she knew she’d never get that. And it hurt. It was a pressure that built in her chest and pressed on her heart. But it was a good hurt. It was a hurt that could maybe one day be healed.

“Nothing,” Lizzie said at last, looking her mother in the eye. “There’s nothing you could do.”

“Nothing?”

“Yup, nothing.”

“Then what, pray tell, was the point of all of this?”

“The point was realizing that I can love you and also need you out of my life.”

Her mom’s head jerked back, the first hint of emotion thawing her features. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. I love you. I’ll always love my mom. But you’re toxic as fuck.”

“Don’t you dare speak to me like—”

“I’ll speak to you however I want. I’m an adult woman having a discussion with a fellow adult. I don’t need you in my life. I don’t need you hurting me, making me doubt myself, judging me. You may be my mom, but you aren’t my family.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Claire stood up, using her height to look down at Lizzie.

“I have a baby on the way that I already love so much, it feels like my bones could crack with it. I have people that love me. I’ve found friends that accept me more than you or Dad ever will. I have Ryan, who doesn’t really get me, but he wants to learn. I have Rake—”

Claire let out a cold laugh. “As if anything you have with that boy is built to last. You don’t have a stunning track record.”

Lizzie chucked those cruel words straight out of her brain. “Believe whatever you want, but he and I care about each other. And regardless of him, I have myself. I love myself. I can take care of myself.”

“Because you’ve done such a good job so far,” Claire spat out.

Lizzie straightened, looking at her mother, as if seeing her for the first time. It was like looking at a stranger. Lizzie wanted to reach into the woman’s skull and force her to understand. Force her to want the relationship Lizzie wanted. But she couldn’t. All Lizzie could do was protect her heart, step away from the thing that had always hurt her.

“Mom, I think you should go.”

“This isn’t your house.”

“Okay, then I’ll go. Either way, I think this conversation is done.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, it is. My life is too full to try and make room for someone that doesn’t want to be there.”

After one last glance at her mom, Lizzie left the room, heading straight to Rake, who stood tensely near the table. She registered his worried look the second before she crashed against him, wrapping her arms around his waist, burrowing her face into his chest. He rubbed his hands up and down her back, and placed kisses on the top of her head.

“You okay?” he asked as she pulled back.

“I am,” she said, wiping her running nose on the back of her hand. Then she looked at him fully and smiled. “Let’s go home.”





Chapter 42



Week twenty-two, little one is the size of a brioche à tête. Harper called and told Lizzie that le bébé’s adult tooth buds are now formed. Which is weird as hell.

Over the next few weeks, a foreign domesticity perfumed Lizzie and Rake’s apartment. It was sweet.

Warm.

Them.

They’d started acquiring odds and ends for the baby’s arrival, Rake swearing and sweating as he tried to put the crib together, Lizzie getting a new pack of outrageous onesies from Etsy delivered at least once a week. Both arguing over what type of nipples they should get for the bottles, like either had a clue, and stockpiling diapers at an alarming rate.

Rake was slowly, carefully relinquishing control of his feelings, letting them out into the world, finding the courage to trust that Lizzie would welcome them. And she did.

She was ever the lightning bolt of a person, saying and doing ridiculous and wonderful things that made Rake smile like a fool for hours on end. He’d get home from a grueling day at work, his battery empty from the vain attempts to please Dominic, and there’d be Lizzie, in the kitchen with flour on her nose, or sprawled out on the couch with a book. Some days, he would beat her home, and she’d waddle in, her baby bump growing, and she’d plop right at his feet in front of the couch.