Page 46 of The Bad Girl

What if it’s cancer?My heart leaps in my chest, and I feel tears welling in my eyes.

Calm down!

“Honey, what’s wrong?” she asks, kissing me lightly on the cheek as her arms encircle me again.

“I don’t know, it’s just, we don’t see each other enough. We should do this more often.”

She lets me go, one side of her lips curling into a smile. “I couldn’t agree more.”

We take our seats, and I drape a cloth napkin over my lap. My hands remain clenched under the table, not wanting my own anxiety to spread to her.

She coughs lightly. “Do you still order the Alfredo?”

“If you still order the chicken parmesan.”

She gives me a tight-lipped smile, then looks back down at her menu.

The waitress approaches not even bothering to hide her exhaustion. “Can I start you off with any drinks today?”

“We’ll have waters,” I begin, but my mother cuts me off.

“I’ll take a glass of wine. Whatever the house special is.”

“Sure, I’ll be back in a minute to take your order.”

I waggle my brow. “Feeling a little frisky?”

My mother rarely drinks. In the twenty-four years I’ve been alive, I remember her imbibing on three occasions, never more than a glass of wine.

“What the heck, you only live life once.”

That doesn’t sound like my mother.

“So what’s going on in your life?” she asks, giving me her full attention.

I start telling her about my job, the volunteer work I do, I totally don’t mention the strip club, at some point, drinks are dropped off, and orders are taken. I tell her about what a pain Prince Harry is, how Granger has phantom heat, and the whole time, she keeps looking at me as though she’s disappointed.

The food arrives, and we eat in silence, the clank of silverware on the plates needling my anxiety further.

“You haven’t mentioned any boys,” she finally says.

“I work, and a lot of my dates just don’t pan out.”

“You still going for those bad boys?” She winks at me, and for the first time in the night, I genuinely smile.

“I am. God, mom, what’s wrong with me.”

“Honey, there’s nothing wrong with you. You like what you like.”

That is most certainly NOT like my mother.

“Really? Because I remember you telling me that I should settle down with a nice analyst, not that you ever did.”

Her eyes squeeze shut, and she releases a slow breath. It’s at this moment I know I’ve encountered the reason for her visit, and whatever it is my mother has to say, I know I’m not going to like it.

“I’ve…tried so hard to be a good mother to you. And I think, for the most part, I did a good job. Looking back, I realize now I should have told you to live a little, to stop studying so hard, to enjoy the moment.”

“Mom, why are you saying this?”