Page 162 of Boss of Me

“I don’t know, Mom,” I say with a sigh. “I’ve been busy.”

“Aren’t we all?” She combs her fingers through my hair. “Your father blessed you with his luscious locks, right down to the rich color.” Something softens in her eyes, so fleeting that I almost miss it before shetsk-tsksme. “Never neglect your hair, no matter how busy or depressed you are.”

I stifle another sigh. “Sure, Mom.”

Ember shuffles back into the living room and flops down on the plush couch, yawning as she stretches her arms above her head. “What do you want to do today, Mar? I wouldn’t mind touring the state capitol and your school campus, and maybe later we can hit the warehouse district. But we’re at your complete disposal,” she says around another yawn. “Just let me grab a power nap?—”

“Apowernap?” Mom echoes indignantly. “We didn’t come all this way to sleep or sightsee! We’re on a mercy mission. Your sister is in distress, and I have just the cure for her blues.”

“A new vibrator?” Ember suggests.

“No, silly girl. A trip to the spa!”

“The spa?” I say with as much enthusiasm as I’d muster for a root canal. “I’m really not up for?—”

“Too late. I already made reservations.” Mom claps her hands together. “Off we go, girls!”

We head down to the posh spa for massages, facials and mani-pedis. Afterward we climb into the executive car that Mom rented for the weekend. The friendly driver takes us across town to an upscale Italian bistro, which we enter through a charming courtyard with a fountain and wrought iron tables.

Over lunch I tell Mom about my new job, but I sense she’s only half listening. My suspicion is confirmed when, barely seconds after I finish talking, she pivots to the next topic—the only topic she cares about.

“So what exactly happened between you and Gunner? Your sister has been stingy with the details.”

“With good reason,” Ember grits out. “You’re not exactly the most sympathetic?—”

“Nonsense. I’m a mother. No mother wants to see her child suffering, which Marlowe clearly is.” She reaches across the table and pats my hand. “Tell me what happened.”

I take a sip of water to lubricate my throat so my voice won’t crack when I talk about Gunner. “He had control issues, which caused some friction in our relationship. And I had difficulty . . . trusting him.”

Mom narrows her eyes. “Did he cheat on you?”

I swallow tightly. “I don’t think so.”

“You don’tthinkso?”

“No,” I say with more conviction. “He didn’t cheat.”

“Did he ever”—Mom lowers her voice—“hit you?”

“Of course not!”

“Just making sure. You said he had control issues?—”

“Not like that,” I say vehemently. “Gunner would never lay a hand on me.”

“Glad to hear it. One never knows with powerful men who’re used to getting their own way.” Mom purses her lips, studyingme shrewdly. “So what went wrong between you and Gunner? From what I could tell, he was very good to you.”

“He was,” I mumble miserably, pushing my steamed mussels around the plate. “He was wonderful. Totally romantic and amazing. But his inability to . . .” I trail off, reluctant to badmouth the man I love. “I just think he has mommy issues. Daddy issues, too.”

“So do you. Congratulations. You’re perfect for each other.”

I frown. “I don’t have daddy issues. Dad was?—”

“Perfect? Yes, in the eyes of a twelve-year-old girl who thought her father could do no wrong, Bowenwasperfect. Except he wasn’t.” The last is spoken with a bitterness that stiffens my spine and raises Ember’s eyebrow.

She looks at me, then at our mother. “Is there something you’re not telling us about Dad?”

Mom presses her lips together. “Your father was a very good man. But he wasn’t perfect. No man is.” She takes a shaky sip of wine, sets the glass down and pins me with a hard look. “All your life you’ve put your father on a pedestal—a pedestal he never asked for. Over the years, I’ve watched you compare every boy to him and find them lacking. I don’t know the whole story behind your breakup with Gunner. I don’t know if you pushed him away like all the others. What I do know is that if you keep holding men to some mythical standard of perfection, you’re going to end up alone and bitter.”