Page 6

“Mom says I have to finish my homework first, and then I can come.” We both laughed at that.Good luck, Cynthia,I thought, because no way was that actually happening. “I’ll be there in ten,” Sydney threw out quickly before hanging up, and I laughed again.
I reached over and lifted a Post-it note off the fridge.
Be home Monday.
-Mom.
Today was Thursday.
Again, not surprised.
“So, nothing, huh?” Sydney asked through her bite of cheese pizza.
“Nope.” I shrugged it off. I was trying to figure out how to tell her that this whole thing was stupid, and I was over it. “But this whole thing is stupid, and I’m over it.” Simple enough. Direct. That was me.
She laughed. “You’re giving up already?! Olli doesn’t quit!”
“Sure she does. All the time. Especially when she doesn’t want to do something.”
“This is true.” She sighed. “So, you’re saying you really don’t want to kiss him?”
“Not even a little bit,” I said, but it was a lie. Sort of. I wanted to kiss him—because he was hot, and his lips looked nice and soft, and I was sure it would end up being a pretty fun thing to do. But at the same time… I didn’t want to, either. Because it was starting to feel messy. And don’t get me wrong, I was drawn to chaos—yes—but not when it felt like that chaos was happening inside my own head. That kind wasn’t as easy to control.
And the fact that I felt this way because of Neil? I wasn’t even going to go there, hence the need to abort mission.
“But it was going to be so much fun to watch,” Sydney whined. “Are you sure?”
I thought it over for her benefit. Thought of Neil. His arms, his face, his eyes, his lips. My heart sped up in my chest.
Was I sure?
I shook my head. “Absolutely not.”
Chapter 3
Intermission
I took that Friday off from school.
Was there a family emergency, did my car break down, was I sick? Nope. Not at all.
But when your mom “worked” out of town ninety-nine percent of the time, you were bound to take a few days off here and there just because you felt like it.
And Friday, I felt like it.
And yes, I know, “worked” out of town was awfully cryptic, and I was not a cryptic person, so here was the deal:
My mother was a professional escort.
See? Full of surprises.
But an even bigger surprise, maybe? Was that I didn’t hate her or judge her for it. Not even a little bit. It just was what it was. She was my mother, and she was crazy—yes—and what she did for a living was… far from typical for a widowed mother living in the suburbs of Texas, but… some of us had to do what we had to do to get by.
It was just that for my mother, “getting by” meant keeping up with the lifestyle of her deceased third husband while trying to find a new and even richer one.
Considering where she’d come from, though, I didn’t blame her. Childhood hunger, trauma, and neglect—they either lit a fire in you that propelled you forward, or they became the weight that dragged you under; I respected her for fighting for the former.
Were there better ways to go about it? Sure. But again, I didn’t blame her. If there were sleazy, filthy-rich men out there who wanted to blow their money on paying for “time” and “dates” with a woman they didn’t know, that was on them. Someone was going to get that money, so it might as well have been my mother.