One Day Soon (One Day Soon, #1)(44)

I locked my front door behind me, balancing my phone between my cheek and my shoulder, all the while trying not to sigh nosily in my mother’s ear.

“I’ve been busy,” I excused.

“Well I’ve got man troubles and I needed to talk to my girl.” I could practically hear my mom’s pout.

“What else is new?” I muttered, not bothering to be overly quiet.

“I deserved that,” Mom responded with a slight chuckle. “When will I learn that a huge dick and a hot set of abs doesn’t necessarily mean long-term commitment?”

“Seriously, Mom? I don’t need to hear about you and dicks and abs. It’s too early in the morning for those kinds of visuals.” My mother cackled on the other end, clearly enjoying herself.

It had taken us years to build any sort of relationship. It had been slow. At times painful. It had required a lot of adjustment—on my part. Because I had learned, the older I got, that my mother was way past changing. And I either had to accept her for all of her faults, or be miserable and resentful.

I had opted for acceptance. Though, at times, it was a bitter pill to swallow.

After I returned home following my time as a teenage runaway, it had been rough. Mom had been angry. Adam, her boyfriend at the time, was annoyed that I had put a wrench in his party-and-screw lifestyle he had going on with my mother.

She had screamed at me for what felt like weeks. I had thought her anger was over the top and I hadn’t understood it at all. It had seemed that she was just pissed I had the audacity to come home.

I had been debating whether I should leave again when one evening my mother appeared in my doorway after getting home from work.

Her mascara was smeared halfway down her face and I knew she had been crying. My mother had always been overly emotional and had never attempted to shield me from her highs and lows. I was always carried along for the ride. But since being on my own I found that I was less affected by her moods. I had learned to accept this part of her.

It was sort of liberating. Letting go of the anger. I realized it had eaten away at me.

There was no sense holding onto it any longer.

“Adam’s gone,” she had sniffled, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.

I hadn’t been surprised. None of Mom’s boyfriends ever stuck around. Though Adam had been around longer than most.

I knew she expected me to pick up the pieces. It had been my role in her life since I was old enough to understand I had to comfort her and not the other way around.

“I’m sorry,” I had told her, not really meaning it. I didn’t feel sorry. Not in the least.

Mom had stood there, wiping at her face, smearing her makeup even worse. “I didn’t like it when you were gone,” she finally said.

“Even with Adam here? I figured you had your hands full,” I muttered.

“I kept your door shut. It made me too sad. I didn’t like knowing it was empty,” she went on, ignoring my statement. Not bothering to explain why, if she was so upset that I was gone, why she had never tried to find out where I went.

She wouldn’t really look at me. Mom could be incredibly immature and childish. Most of the time she acted as though she were younger I was. It made it difficult to relate to her as a kid to parent.

But I had also known that this was as close to an apology that I would ever get from her. I could have yelled at her for not coming to look for me. For allowing me to sleep on the streets. I could have cried and screamed at how she chose men over me time and time again. But I didn’t want to fight. I hadn’t wanted to argue.

Instead I had taken her words for what they were. A peace offering.

And after losing Yoss I had needed something to feel good about.

I had patted my bed, giving her a smile. One that I felt. Mom had come in, sinking down onto the bed beside me. I put my arm around her and she laid her head on my shoulder. She cried for the * that broke her heart while being comforted by the only person who ever really loved her. The person she so easily turned her back on when it suited her.

Adam hadn’t been the last boyfriend to sweep into our lives. But after those six months on the street and Yoss’s disappearance from my life, I learned to deal with it.

I focused on plans.

On making them.

On following through with them.

I had made a promise and I intended to keep it.

And Mom and I slowly came to a place where we could be almost normal together.

Almost.

I was pretty sure our definition of normal was very different from everyone else’s.

“You’re such a prude, Imi. Sometimes I can’t believe you’re my daughter. I didn’t raise you to be so conservative.”

It would have been so easy to remind my mother that she had very little to do with raising me, but I didn’t.

Picking and choosing battles had become a way of life.

“I’m on my way to work, Mom. Is there something you needed?” I asked, getting into my car.

“Can I come over sometime soon? It’s been a while since I’ve seen you.” She was trying. In her crazy, egocentric way, my mother was working to build the relationship that had for a long time felt inconsequential.

“Sure, Mom. I’d like that,” I told her truthfully. As frustrating as she could be, I would always be a little desperate for her attention.