Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
“Not drunk. Buzzed.” Her smile widens, almost proud. “Besides, your father’s always looking for an excuse to be upset. Especially if it distracts from his midlife mistress and her tragic wardrobe.”
I press two fingers to the space between my eyes. “Vivienne.”
Not Mother. Not Mum. She’s only Vivienne to me.
“Don’t use that tone,” she chides. “You sound like your prep school headmaster.” She props herself up slightly and tucks an errant blond curl behind her ear. “You looked handsome on the telly. Even if you didn’t win.”
That surprises me. “You watched the race?”
“Mmm,” she hums, and I’m not sure if that’s a yes or no. It doesn’t matter one way or the other as Vivienne Barnes hasn’t been a true mother to me since… well, forever, I guess. “Will you stay for dinner?”
I don’t answer, instead rising from my chair to move to crack open the window. The air outside is damp and honest. In here, everything feels coated in perfume and denial.
“You should think about dating someone,” she says abruptly, as if we’re discussing weather or wallpaper. I glance over my shoulder at her, one eyebrow raised, but she’s not finished. “You’re twenty-six. Almost an old man in racing years. Don’t want to end up like your father. All money and no one to spend it on except his tart du jour.”
I don’t answer. I’m used to her ping-pong conversational pivots. I watch her closely, noting the slight tremor in her left hand, the hazy glaze still clinging to her eyes. She’s present in body, but not really in mind.
“That’s not an option for me,” I say dismissively. “Not with the life I’ve got.”
She tsks. “Nonsense. You’re a good-looking boy. Women love race car drivers. They practically throw themselves at you, don’t they?”
A bitter laugh pushes up my throat, but I swallow it down. This interest in my dating life isn’t real. It’s merely her mechanism to deflect from her addictions. She’s never asked why I don’t bring anyone home. And now that she has, the answer burns like a blade turned inward.
I think of Katherine. Eighteen. The only girl I ever liked enough to try. Bright-eyed, curious, genuinely sweet. I brought her home for Christmas break, stupidly proud to have someone who made me feel halfway normal.
Vivienne met us at the door with gin on her breath and a fur coat slipping off one shoulder. She was horrible from the start, refusing to call her by her real name. She was Emily, then Emma, and would apologize every time I would correct her, but I could tell she wasn’t sorry. Not with that malicious, gin-fueled glint in her eye. She ended up knocking over a bottle of Bordeaux onto Katherine’s lap and then shrieked at her for wasting the wine. Katherine burst into tears, I took her home and we never spoke again. That’s only one example of the ways my mother likes to maim from the inside out.
When I don’t answer, she keeps poking at me. “Really… why don’t you want your friends to know me? You know… I’ve always supported you.”
I stare at her.
She blinks.
My anger bubbles. “Really? Is that what you remember?” I ask, and a mean edge creeps into my voice before I can stop it. “You supporting me? Because I remember you showing up to that junior kart final in Marbella so drunk they wouldn’t let you past the gate. Or how about the time you fell asleep during my prep school awards banquet? Or maybe it’s the time you made a scene at Ascot, trying to climb into a hospitality tent and screaming that you were my manager. Are those the ways you supported me?”
She flinches. It’s small, but I see it. “That was years ago,” she murmurs, flopping another dismissive wave at me.
My upper lip curls over her refusal to take responsibility. “You did it last year at a press event in London. Luckily, security stopped you before you could make a fool out of both of us.”
She opens her mouth, then closes it. Shifts on the chaise like the cushions have turned against her.
I try to soften. God knows why. Habit, maybe. “I’m asking you to go back to rehab,” I say. “To try again. Not for me, but for you.”
“I am trying,” she snaps. “But everyone has a different idea of what that looks like. My therapists say I’m ‘noncompliant.’ The doctors think I’m a walking liability. And you—” She gestures at me, a fresh slosh of tea spilling onto her robe. “You all think if I just go to another clinic and eat kale and chant mantras, I’ll come out the other side fixed.”
“No one expects you to be fixed,” I say evenly. “Just sober.”
Vivienne stares at me like I’ve spoken in a language she’s only half learned.
A long beat passes.