“It’s a date. Not an audition. There’s no role I’m trying out for.”
Her laugh is a little too cynical for my poor anxious self, because the sound of it pouring out of her makes all the hair on my arms stand up.
“Oh, honey, yes you are. You’re too na?ve to see it.” She shakes her head and takes a deep breath, her words coming out as she exhales. “Men like Declan McCormick require a certain kind of woman.”
“Steve required a certain kind of woman. See how well that went?” I just hope it’s not the same certain kind of woman. A mental image of Jessica Coffin chooses that exact moment to invade my brain. I shove it away and replace it with one involving Declan’s hands, my ass, and a kiss that crowds everything else out.
Her eyes go troubled on my behalf. Or maybe she’s actually reflecting on my words. Then she says: “Steve and Declan are nothing alike.”
“Because Declan comes from money?” Steve wasn’t born into it. He scraped and clawed his way up. Declan’s family—according to Amanda’s research—has been rich longer than the United States has existed. Something about shipping and mining. Her words trickle trough my subconscious as Mom continues.
“No—not because Declan has more money. Because Steve is a scrabbler. Always has been, and always will be. His sense of self depends entirely on whether his ambition is being filled. If he feels like he’s making progress, then his identity feels secure. If he’s standing still or falling back, then he loses who he is.”
She’s gone wistful, and Mom doesn’t do wistful. I am acutely aware of the ticking of time, and of Declan’s presence behind that door, and yet I’m riveted. I’ve never heard my mother wax rhapsodic about anything other than new spring colors in the latest Lululemon fashion campaign.
“Honey,” she says, her hands on my shoulders. Our faces are a foot from each other and her eyes shimmer under something that isn’t quite tears. “Declan knows who he is. There’s a quiet confidence that men from his kind of family possess. It’s easy to be with someone like that when you know who you are.”
She frowns. “But if you don’t—if the deep core of Shannon isn’t anchored—then being with him can feel like you’re lost. The world around you will insist that you’re standing on solid ground, and then one day you’ll realize you’re just balanced really well atop an enormous piece of driftwood in the middle of the ocean.”
A prickly heat begins where my heart lives. She’s not talking about me and Declan. She’s talking about her.
And someone other than my dad.
“How do you know this, Mom?” I whisper. Nothing else matters right now. Her eyes are filled with pain and memory, and she opens her mouth to respond, time moving slower than normal.
Tap tap tap. “Shannon?” It’s Declan’s voice now.
Damn. “Almost ready!” I say so brightly I could light Los Angeles at night through sheer cheeriness.
Mom’s face goes back to neutral. What just passed between us feels too important not to talk about, and yet…
I grab my purse and check for everything I need. Wallet, cash, makeup, EpiPen—
“You have your EpiPens?” she asks, as if reading my mind.
I pull both of them out of my purse and wave them like magic wands. Which they kind of are.
“Yep. One in case and one as backup.”
Worry flickers in her eyes. “Don’t stray too far from a path. You know what happened last time you were stung.”
I’m highly allergic, as we learned in kindergarten when I stepped on a bee and my foot blew up. I’ve been stung twice since then, and the last time the anaphylactic reaction was bad enough to cause throat swelling.
“It’ll be dusk soon. Not much chance.”
“But still.” Her voice shifts to a register that makes my heart ache. I remember how terrified she was for the two bee stings she was there for. The third happened three years ago when I was still in college, and while the paramedics were fast and acted effectively, it was harrowing and horrifying.
I’m careful, though. Determined, methodical, and I know exactly what to do down to the letter. If stung, call 911. Then swallow Benadryl. Inject myself with an EpiPen. Get to safety quickly. Receive medical attention. That’s it.
Oh. And pray.
I’ve been trained on EpiPen use. I take first-aid classes and CPR classes every year. I’ve watched videos over and over on treating anaphylactic reactions to bee stings, and I’ve been lectured by countless doctors. Mom and Dad had a 504 plan for me in school—like a special plan for kids with medical issues that might interfere with schooling—and while life doesn’t offer adults 504 plans, I have had to develop one in my own mind.
“I am fine, Mom.”
“You’ve never been the outdoorsy type. I don’t understand why he can’t just take you to that lovely restaurant at the top of Prudential building.”
I do not confess that I haven’t told Declan about my allergies. Who throws that out after being asked on a date? Third date. Deadly allergies are definitely third-date material.
“I’ll be fine.” My voice has an edge. I can feel it as the words come out. It’s threatening to cut me. I have to get out of here.
Alarm speeds through her face as she looks at me. Really looks at me. “Of course you will.” She straightens her shoulders. “You’ll be fine. It’s your father I have to worry about. Do you have any idea what he must be going through out there, talking to a billionaire while wearing flannel pajama pants with penguins all over them?”
Bzzzzz. My phone and Mom’s phone buzz at the exact same time with a text.
It’s Steve’s mother’s phone, which is still in my contacts list. “I know that’s not Monica, because Monica can barely dial a mobile phone, much less figure out how to text. Leave me alone, Steve!” I mutter.
I read the text:
Dinner. Tomorrow night. You and me. I’m buying. :) Steve
“Say yes,” Mom says. I look up, expecting her to be reading over my shoulder, but she’s looking at her own phone. Then I realize Steve has copied my MOM into the same text message.
“He invited you, too?”
“No. He started looping me in to your texts to make sure I tell you to answer him.”
I have seven thousand ways to respond to that, most of which involve throwing something at his smug face. But then I realize that if I don’t see him, this will never end. It’s easier to have a farewell dinner than to keep ignoring him.