Love Me One More Time by Laura Burton
Chapter 2
The front door opens the second I put my car in park. I feel like moms have a radar for when one of their offspring is nearby.
The special thing about my relationship with my mom is, we’re more sister-sister than mother-daughter––it’s one of the perks of having a child when you’re still too young to legally drink.
I never had the time to make friends, but my mom is my best friend. We tell each other everything, we steal each other’s clothes, and even though I know my dad was terrible to us, she never says a bad word about him. Ever.
She worked two jobs to keep us housed and fed. Now that she doesn’t have to worry about money, she volunteers at the homeless shelter and reads William Wordsworth to the elderly at the local nursing home.
She’s just an incredibly decent human being.
But I can’t say her generosity rubbed off on me; everything I’ve done has been for my own sake, and hers. What I want, more than anything, is for both of us to be safe and happy.
I bought twelve boxes of donuts at the cake shop and gave the freckled kid at the counter a hundred-dollar bill as a tip. Later on, I’m going to hand out all the donuts at the homeless shelter.
On the face of it, they look like selfless acts. But seeing that freckled kid’s face light up and grow misty-eyed as I handed her a tip made me feel just a little less terrible for the way I scarred the kids at Croftwood Academy.
And sharing the donuts at the homeless shelter? I just want to see them close their eyes when they bite into the first donut they’ve had all year. It’s a priceless moment, and it’ll definitely help me forget how shallow my job is. But hello diabetes and heart failure for the homeless people.
Mom walks up to the car and eyes the donut boxes for a second; the slight twitch of her left eyebrow gives her poker face away. But she doesn’t comment. She just picks up an armful and helps me get them into her van.
The homeless shelter visit takes less time than I expected. I had hoped to kill a few hours, away from social media and my phone, but the donuts were devoured within minutes. Mom is keen to leave so we can get the birthday celebrations started. I don’t know if I should be worried.
“Mom, I don’t know what you have planned, but what I would really like is a nice, quiet evening. Just you and me…” I bump her hip playfully as we walk up her driveway. “And maybe we can watch a movie?”
“Just us?” She sounds mystified. “Then why did you buy yourself such a big cake?” I’m carrying the chocolate monstrosity and hoping desperately that I don’t trip on one of those imaginary steps.
I’m not sure I want to tell her the truth. Well, I kind of flushed my entire career down the drain and I’m feeling depressed about turning thirty. Besides, I’ve always wanted to eat a whole chocolate cake by myself––like that boy in Matilda. Now just feels like the right time to try.
Okay, so that Matilda dream part isn’t true. It’s never even crossed my mind before now.
Like I said, my mom and I tell each other everything. But this breakdown, or whatever it is I end up deciding to call it, just seems like something I need to keep to myself. And that feels weird.
In the absence of an answer, my mom pulls open the front door. There’s an explosion, and my precious––oversized––cake goes up in the air as I yank my mom back, trying to use my body to shield her from the blast.
My arms are spread out wide to form a wall with my body, and I’m cowering, backing the front door. There’s an additional loud thud, and I flinch. But two seconds, then three, then four and five seconds of silence go past and something feels off... My body feels intact. I can feel my legs, and my head. I turn slowly with my eyes closed, to peer into the open doorway, and realize a bomb didn’t go off. There are people in the doorway, with party horns.
Party horns. I heard party horns, not a bomb blast.
Mom. I whip around.
A slight groan escapes my mouth when my eyes land on my poor mom, who is a few steps away from me and now covered in thick chocolate mush. Icing drips down her arms and shirt, and she drags two hands down her face to wipe the cake out of her eyes.
“Oh, Mom. Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry,” I say, scraping thick, mud-like cake off her shoulders. I can’t help thinking of how good the cake would have tasted. People start filing out, making sounds of concern and offering to help.
My mom shrugs and sighs. “Surprise!” See what I mean? My mom is a saint. What kind of person gets a whole cake dumped on their head, and doesn’t run down the street screaming? Or dash into the house wailing like a banshee? Because I’m one hundred percent sure that’s what I would do in this situation.
Honestly though, my mom should have known better. I hate surprises. Hate them.
The last time I went into a haunted house, I ended up being escorted off the premises because I’d been screaming so loud, I was scaring the kids.
I was nineteen and it was Halloween. Carter couldn’t stop laughing at me. He brought it up all the time. “A date I’ll never forget,” he said.
Another time, my mom tried to surprise me with a puppy on Christmas Day. She put it in a little cage and covered it with a blanket. I stuck my hand under the blanket and my fingers met something cold and wet. I cried out like I was being murdered.
The poor dog trembled for almost an hour after that.
He was a tiny ball of fluff and I had to carry him in my shirt, close to my chest, all day, to keep him calm.
So, is it a surprise to anyone that I reacted the way I did when my mom walked me into a surprise birthday party? It shouldn’t be.
But the horrified looks tell me that they maybe pictured this moment a little differently.
The guests mill around, probably wondering if they need to leave or not. Most of the faces only look vaguely familiar. It’s as though my mom contacted my publicist and had him invite my “friends”. They’re all just work acquaintances.
The awkwardness is heavy and uncomfortable until my mom beams and gestures to herself. “Cake’s on me, everybody!” Then she breaks into a fit of laughter.
There’s a beat, then a scatter of laughter.
“Come on, Mom, let’s get you cleaned up,” I mutter to her, urging her through the doorway. I lock eyes briefly with my publicist and he gives me the hardest look.
He knows.
I don’t know how he knows so soon––maybe the school principal got right on the phone as soon as I left––but I know he knows I messed up.
I grind my teeth, excusing myself as I help my mom to the bathroom. But just as I’m about to file in after her, she swivels on the spot and shakes her head at me, sending fudge and creamy cake crumbs flying. “Go. Have fun at your party. I won’t be long, honest.”
Before I can argue, she pushes the door shut and locks it with a click.
My stomach clenches and gurgles at the sudden chorus of phones vibrating and ringtones going off. Slowly, I spin on the spot to look at the room of guests. Stylists, assistants, and former clients are staring at me. Their phones are hovering mid-air and their mouths are open. I watch several eyes flit from screen to me, then to the screen again. I swear I even hear my own voice from a speaker or two.
My blood turns cold. I thought I had more time. I wonder how many YouTube channels have the video, and how many views the top video will have by the time I get on there to look.
No one moves right away. No one speaks. But I already know what they’re thinking.
And it’s not about my welfare. Like watching a car wreck, there’s the deep desire to move on and get as far away as possible, but there’s also the instinctual drive to keep watching. So, these people stand motionless, staring like a herd of deer in headlights.
I’m struck by a brilliant thought. “You know what,” I say, rubbing my stomach in a dramatic fashion. “I think I’m coming down with a bug. Unless you want to get sick too, I think it’s probably best that you all go.”
I’m not sure if it’s the vision of me throwing my guts up all over the place that breaks everyone out of the spell, or the fact that several phones are now ringing off the hook. But all the guests wish me a half-hearted happy birthday and leave. Well, almost all.
Jay, my publicist, stays still, his size thirteen feet planted firmly on the ground. Jay is so tall, he has to duck every time he walks through a doorway, and his wide nose flares whenever he’s unimpressed. He’s from Tonga, a South Pacific island to the east of Australia, and he’s usually sporting the charismatic charm you’d expect from a man who grew up on an exotic island. But not today.
Today, his nostrils are flaring and his eyes are slits. He’s scowling at me. The dramatic contrast of his current mood, which is usually so carefree and laid back, sends a shiver down my spine. I gulp, like a child caught red-handed.
“I know it’s your birthday, Zoe, but we need to talk about what happened at the school.”
“And we will!” I say, raising a hand. “But can we save this talk for the morning? I really am getting sick.” I clutch my stomach. It’s really churning now.
Why is it that whenever I feign illness, like a headache or something, I end up getting sick for real? I guess there’s some truth to the phrase mind over matter.
Jay crosses his arms across his big chest, and his stern expression, contrasting like that with his bright Hawaiian shirt, is almost funny enough to make me laugh. Almost.
“Do you know how many videos of that keynote speech are online already?” I don’t think I’ve ever seen Jay’s mouth in a straight line like that. In fact, I didn’t even know it was humanly possible to make a perfectly straight line with your mouth. I hold my breath, and the two of us have a silent staring contest, listening to the sound of rushing water. The faint sound of my mom’s bad singing does nothing to lift the mood, either.
“A dozen?” I ask, in the world’s tiniest voice.
Jay drags a hand over his bald head and sighs so heavily, his shoulders sag as though all the wind has been knocked out of him. “Zoe. My phone has been ringing off the hook––I had to turn it off.” He’s pacing the room now, swinging his big arms and making angry little snorts as he puffs air out of his nostrils. The last time I saw him like this was when his wife Silvia was in labor with their twins. I was in the middle of an interview on a talk show when he got the call. For some unfathomable reason, he stayed with me until I finished the interview. He had a vein throbbing in the side of his neck the whole time, and I seriously thought his eyes were going to pop out of their sockets.
“You’ve already gone viral. I’ve got reporters from every major publication in the city asking for a statement.”
My own phone starts to vibrate in my back pocket. I ignore it. “Well. They do say there’s no such thing as bad publicity,” I say with a shrug. Jay looks at me like I sprouted two heads.
“They’re calling you a fraud. Half of your sponsors have cancelled their contracts. The reality TV show is off the table. Zoe, I don’t know how to salvage this.”
Oddly, listening to Jay list all the reasons why my career is over doesn’t make me feel a thing. That’s interesting.
I kind of expected to be horrified. Or humiliated. Or at the very least frightened of the uncertain future that I now face.
But instead, I feel… Nothing.
Jay is huffing and puffing now. And judging by his red eyes and the number of times he’s scratched his neck, he’s feeling all of the emotions for me.
I remember then, with a nasty twist in my stomach, that Jay has a family. If the Zoe ship is headed for oblivion, there’s a whole host of people coming down with me.
Many of them were at my party tonight.
“Jay, I don’t know what to say…” My palms are sweaty. I rub them down on my pant legs. “I’m so sorry,” I say. I finally feel something. Guilt. I’m overwhelmed at the thought of all the families I’ve put at risk with my stupid rant.
The bathroom door opens and lets out a load of steam. My mom appears wearing a white robe and a fluffy pink towel on her head. The fact that she didn’t think twice about appearing like this in the middle of my birthday party––she doesn’t know I already scared everyone away––almost brings a smile to my face. If only I’d inherited my mom’s confidence. She’s so content in her own skin; never worried about what other people will think. Those two qualities would come in handy right about now.
My mom’s eyes scan the empty room, the untouched buffet table, and then the TV that Jay has just switched on.
It’s my face on the screen. The video footage is shaky. The kid filming was either laughing at my foolishness, or trembling at the realization that success is like a house of cards. One miscalculated move and it all comes tumbling down.
We all edge closer to the screen and I wring my hands, reading what it says.
“Zoe Walsh lashes out against the wellness industry. Leaders react.”
My mom, who up until now has taken everything so well, turns to me with eyes like giant saucers. “What did you do?” It comes out like a whisper, and for the first time, the full gravity of this whole situation hits me like a pile of rocks.
My phone starts to vibrate again. I can’t bear to look at my mom, so I pull it out this time and look at the screen.
39 missed calls. 24,000 notifications––and climbing. I don’t dare look at my email. But the name of the last caller sets my heart on fire.
“I have to go. Jay, I am truly sorry. I promise we can talk about this in the morning.” I grab my jacket. “And Mom, I’m really sorry for all of this. But something just came up and I have to go.”
Jay and my mom exchange looks, like parents wondering what to do with their lost child. But I don’t wait for them to reply before I dash out of the house.
I need to get away from all of this. From the questions. The judgement. The total disappointment from people I care about.
My phone buzzes with voicemail.
I get in my car and take steady breaths, counting back from one hundred in sets of four, then I press play.
“Hey, stranger. Long time, huh? I know this is pretty out of the blue, but I wanted to wish you a happy birthday, and I’m in town. I was wondering if I could drop by and see you? Call me back.”
For the first time since the debacle at the school, I break into a genuine grin.
I should have deleted his number. Normal people block their exes right?
But I didn’t. Because the truth is, Carter really is the one that got away.
The one I’ve been secretly hoping, my whole life, to reconnect with, some day.
Now he’s calling me. Asking to see me. After all these years.
My mind tells me to focus on damage control; to stay and fix the mess I’ve gotten myself into. But my heart has other ideas.
I dial the number and make the call. “Hey, Carter. I’m sending you an address. Meet me there in an hour.”