Sabrina

“Baby!”

I still cringe when she calls me that. When she acts as if she has the right to call me anything other than my name.

Drawing a deep breath, I let it fill me, let it fuel me with calm, with grace. That is the only way I can handle her. “Hello, Maureen.”

She holds her arms out wide, scads of silver and gold bracelets jangling up her wrists. Her jeans are painted onto her legs, and her blouse is unbuttoned low enough to reveal the tops of her breasts. “Give your momma a hug.”

My skin crawls. I don’t want to hug her. I don’t want to talk to her. I don’t want to see her. But I also don’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing how I feel. I choose blankness with her. That’s how I’ve tried to behave since she left—cool and calm, showing no emotions.

I walk the few feet to her. Steeling myself, I give her a quick hug. The cloying scent of her Britney Spears perfume wafts into my nostrils. She tries to keep me in the embrace, gripping me tight then sniffing my hair.

I peel myself away, smoothing a hand over my blouse—my Up Next uniform. My hair is still wet, pulled back in a looped-over ponytail.

“Tell me all the things. What’s the dealio?” Her eyes drift in the direction that Flynn walked. “Are you going to tell me about your new main squeeze?”

She hasn’t earned the privilege to know a damn thing about the best part of my life. I dodge the question. “How are you, Maureen?”

She blows a pink bubble the size of a small fish. Snapping it into her hot-pink lipsticked mouth, she shakes her head and wags a finger at me. “Don’t try to avoid the subject.” Her voice is cheery like we always have these kinds of girly conversations when she bursts into town every year.

Oh, wait. We do. Because she bursts into town every year, acting like everything is fine. “When did you start seeing Flynn Parker?”

A blush spreads across my face when she voices his name. I hate how it sounds on her tongue. Gritting my teeth, I remain silent as I wonder how she knows who he is. But then, she probably stays current on all the wealthy men.

She punches my arm. “You got yourself a rich man. Way to go, girl.”

“Mom,” I say, groaning.

“Good for you, baby. Now, you don’t have to worry about a thing.”

Sighing heavily, I bite out the words. “Mom, that’s not how it works. That’s not how it is.”

She juts her hip out to the side, tapping the toe of her red cowboy boot. “That’s totally the way it is,” she whispers and nods at the car. “It’s that way for me too. Carlos owns his own business.” She scans the block then whispers, “A dispensary. Want to meet him? He loves to shower me with gifts.” She flashes a silver bracelet with a turquoise stone in it. “He picked this up for me at the casino.”

She turns toward the car and taps the door. “Carlos, show your pretty face to my daughter.”

With one hand on the wheel, her new beau leans his head toward the passenger side, flashing a huge grin as he drums his fingers on the dashboard in time to pop music blasting from the radio. He’s probably twenty-eight.

“Hi, Carlos,” I say flatly.

“Hey, Sabrina, good to finally meet you. You want to hang out with us today?”

“I have a business meeting. But thanks.” I turn to my mother. “I have to go. I have an appointment in midtown in thirty minutes, and I need to dry my hair.”

“Let us drive you. We can totally help you, and we can chat and catch up.”

“No,” I say faster than I’ve ever answered any question. “I don’t have time to talk right now.”

“How do you not have time for your momma?”

I want to ignore her. I want to play it cool. But this time I can’t. The ancient hurt wells up. The frustration that’s never far away when it comes to her spills over. “Me? How do I not have time? How did you not have time for us? You left us, Maureen. You left your thirteen-year-old son. You didn’t make any time for him.”

She laughs, dismissing me with a wave. “You were so much better at taking care of Kevin than I was. I never understood that boy. It was all for the best that you wound up looking out for him. Don’t you think so?”

Red billows from my eyes. Fumes roll off my body. How can she do this? That’s not how mothering works, handing off a kid you don’t understand to your other kid. That’s not how family works. “Looking out for him? I raised him, Maureen. You left.”

“And it was the right choice.”

The temperature in me rises. “It was only for the best because I love him unconditionally. Because I treated him better, not because it was an acceptable thing to—”

I cut myself off. My pulse speeds too dangerously for this conversation to continue. Why bother arguing with her? It won’t change the past, and it won’t alter the future. I absolutely know why my mother left us. Because she wanted to. Because she chose to.

I can make a choice too.

I don’t have to give her an audience. I don’t have to answer her questions. “I’m leaving, Maureen.”

“Fine, fine. Be that way. But since you got yourself a rich, hot thing, can you help your momma out with some greenbacks?” She brushes her thumb and forefinger together. “I just need five thousand dollars for this new venture that Carlos and I want to start. Not too much, right? Surely, you can spare that.”

I stare at her incredulously.

This is who she is.

This is how she acts.

It shouldn’t surprise me. But it still does. Maybe it always will. But my answer will always be the same.

“No.”

“No?” She’s equally incredulous. “How can you say no?”

I scoff. “I don’t have money for you, and I certainly don’t have Flynn’s money for you. I barely have my own. I have a business meeting to go to, and I am leaving. Drive safely.”

I head inside, slamming the door behind me, my breath coming hard and fast and angry. Latent fury runs through my veins and threatens to overtake me.

But I don’t have the time for rage.

I have life to deal with.

I must refuse to let her bother me.

I tell myself to let her go, and I picture her and her boyfriend cruising along the interstate, blasting past the speed limit, getting the hell out of New York and away from me.

I bid them a silent farewell.

She is who she is, and every day I make the choice not to be my mother’s daughter.

I dry my hair, run to the subway, and soon I’m back at the building in midtown, heading inside. I do a double take when I reach the nineteenth floor.

The frames of old editions on the walls have been removed. The receptionist is gone. Most of the desks are dismantled.

Bob Galloway strides in my direction. He looks like he hasn’t shaved in days.