Love Me One More Time by Laura Burton

Chapter 4

The next morning, I picked up a bag of muffins and two steaming mugs of hot chocolate on the way to my mom’s. I sent her a couple of messages earlier, and she saw them but didn’t reply. That tells me all I need to know.

I’m a jerk for running out on her last night, and she’s not ready to forgive me yet. But she doesn’t want to say it, because then she’ll feel like a jerk.

Which is why this vacation is just what we both need.

As usual, her door swings open as soon as I set my car in park. I amble out of the car, kick the door shut with my foot, and turn to face my mom. I catch a twitch in the corner of her mouth when she sees the drinks and bakery paper bag.

“I owe you a million apologies,” I announce, reaching her. “I was having the worst day and I know that’s not an excuse, but please don’t stay mad at me for long.” I hold out the muffin bag like a peace offering, and she eyes it with a wrinkled nose. “I’m not mad at you,” she grumbles, taking the bag. Then she turns on her heel and I follow her inside. “I’m just disappointed.”

I groan. When we reach her living room, I take my position on my favorite chair, the one with extra cushions, beside the window.

“That’s worse than you being mad.” I hand over my mom’s cup, and then curl up, cradling my drink like it’s a hot water bottle.

“But I’m going to make it up to you, starting right now.”

My mom looks up at me, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“I’m going to help you pack.”

“Pack? Are you sending me off to a nursing home already?”

I snort into my drink and it bubbles. “No,” I say, coughing. “I’m taking you with me on vacation.”

My mom lets out a little squeak and almost spills her drink. “What! What about the homeless shelter? I agreed to water my neighbors’ lawn while they’re away. Not to mention the fundraiser I’m helping out with at the school!”

I cross my arms and look at my mom with a brow raised. “You always have excuses. When was the last time we went away?”

“But I have all of these obligations…”

“I can take care of that.”

“How?”

Again, I shoot my mom a look and her cheeks go red. My name is on the list of the top ten self-made millionaires in the United States. But to my mom, I’ll always just be Zoe first; her little girl with big curly hair, a button nose, and a tooth gap.

No amount of money or fame will change that.

“I’ll hire someone to cover at the shelter while you’re gone, and we’ll get a temp to water your neighbors’ grass.” I take a breath. “As for the school, Mom, I’ve not been there in what––twenty years? I’m sure there’s plenty of other parents on the PTA who can––and even want––to take care of the fundraiser.”

My mom looks down at the hardwood floor. I know she’s trying to come up with another reason to decline my offer.

I haven’t told her what this really is––a favor to Carter, and I’m not sure if she’ll be more or less enthused when she finds out about that.

I wonder if I can fool her into thinking we just bumped into Carter… And his entire family. On his private island.

Yeah. That’s a stretch, even in my imagination.

“Mom?” I begin. I sound like myself, sixteen years ago; that one time I broke a vase in the living room in the middle of one very intense Zumba session. “Carter came over last night.”

This time, my mom does spill her hot chocolate. It’s dribbled to the floor, but she stays frozen on the spot, staring at me like she just watched me float in through the wall.

I may have spent one too many years bad mouthing Carter; the arrogant, selfish, know-it-all who broke my heart into a million pieces and moved on without so much as a goodbye. That cold-hearted vampire of love that sucked my soul of all relationship abilities and significantly diminished her chances of becoming a grandma.

I see my mother’s face contort and I just know I’ve done too well in making her think the worst of him. I dash forward with a paper towel to mop up the mess on the floor.

“Carter. Your ex-fiancé, Carter.”

“No, Carter from the Backstreet Boys,” I say with an eye roll. My mom’s face relaxes a little and her mouth forms an o.

Oh, that’s right. The thought of me mingling with the rich and famous is no longer appropriate to joke about. I mean, I do have Ellen on speed dial.

Nobody warned me how much money changes things. It’s so hard to pull off sarcasm these days.

“No, Mom. I mean, yes. I mean Carter… my ex!”

She’s horrified. “Has he been stalking you?”

“I gave him my address.”

“Why?”

“He called me.”

“Is that why you left the party?”

I grit my teeth. No. I left the party because I smashed a cake over my mom’s head, had a nervous breakdown in front of several guests, and didn’t want to spend the last hours of my birthday talking about work with my publicist.

And when I say work, I mean the apocalyptic end of my career.

I’m surprised Tony Robbins hasn’t checked in on me.

“Again. I’m sorry.” I sigh and drag a hand over my face. My temples are starting to throb. “His grandma is in the early stages of dementia and she thinks Carter and I are still engaged.”

I don’t need to open my eyes to know what face my mom is making right now. Her dramatic gasp says it all, and I just know she’s eyeing me with fear, like I'm a rattlesnake about to strike her with another painful revelation at any moment.

I figure I should just be as honest as I can be, and get it all over with. There’s no point trying to hide anything now. Not when I need to get my mom onto a plane in six hours.

“Carter has invited us to Sanctum for the long weekend.”

“Because… his grandma thinks you’re still engaged.”

“Yes. We need to go along and pretend we’re part of the family.”

“So, this isn’t a vacation.”

I grab two large fistfuls of my curls and yank. I guess it was expecting too much to think that my mom would just go along with the plan without comment.

The frustrating thing is, she’s the biggest pushover on the planet. She’d bend over backward for a total stranger in need.

But when I feel like someone needs help, she’s skeptical.

My mom’s eyes narrow at me as she lowers herself into the chair opposite mine. “Why are you agreeing to this? Carter was awful to you. You owe him nothing.”

My mom might as well have grabbed my neck and started squeezing the life out of me. I blink tears out of my eyes and clear my throat at the discomfort. “I figured I could use the time off-grid. I mean, you remember how strongly Carter’s family felt about avoiding the news? Besides, we could both use a break.”

“And you think parading around with your ex in front of his nuclear and extended family is a break?” My mom frowns at me. I shrink into my chair under the intensity of her hard stare. “What if all the faking starts to confuse you? What if you start to have feelings for him again?”

Too late for that. But I don’t have the heart to tell my mom that that ship sailed a long time ago. In fact, I’ve been on it my whole life. “That’s why I need you with me, Mom. To keep me in check.” I reach out and take my mom’s hand, giving her my best butter-wouldn't-melt smile.

Before my mom can argue any further, a loud thump thump thump at the door makes us both jump.

On autopilot, my mom rises from her chair and goes to the door to look through the peephole. But then she draws back sharply and slinks into a corner of the hall, her eyes wide and fearful. “We have a problem.”

My heart sinks. I drag myself out of my chair and approach the door. The babble of voices at the other end grows louder with every step I take.

Looks like they already found me.

I creep up to the peephole and lurch back as I lock eyes with somebody peering in.

Who does that? Who looks through a peephole… from the outside?

Paparazzi do. And it’s not even the creepiest thing they’ve done so far.

One time, at my lake house, a paparazzi guy got all dressed up and kitted out as a window cleaner. He was outside, cleaning my windows, and I was in the middle of the Downward Dog position when I heard the sound of a camera shutter go off.

I grab my mom by her upper arms. “There’s nowhere they won’t find me. And they won’t leave until this social media storm passes.” I give her a hard look, and her eyes soften. She can sense the little girl inside of me that’s quaking in her boots.

Maybe it’s the realization that her baby daughter still needs her mom, or the fact that her house is now surrounded by the paparazzi zombie apocalypse, but my mom finally nods, resolved. “Okay, sweetheart. When do we leave?”