“Well, that’s a relief,” she says darkly.

“Is it? I find it a tragedy.”

“It would be if you choose someone working in that dreadful music business.”

Gritting my teeth, I take a seat on the soft Womb chair by the window. “Why would it even matter, given that I work in the music business?”

I don’t know why I’m asking, or why I’m still on the phone. I should hang up. But I can’t. I never can. Where my parents are concerned, I am a glutton for punishment.

“You should have something more than that,” my mother says with a gentleness that disarms me. “You’re so tangled up in all of them. It isn’t healthy when your happiness hinges on just one area of living.”

I flop back against the chair, my heart beating too hard and fast. Oh, the fucking irony. Hadn’t I said the same thing to Rye? Holy hell, have I become her? My throat closes up in a panic. I need to get off the phone.

“Mom—"

“No, I’m serious, Brenna. I worry about you.”

I know she does. The problem is, her brand of worrying leaves me feeling belittled and lacking. I’d rather she worry less and trust me more. Then again, I don’t trust myself anymore so I can hardly blame her.

I have no idea what I’m doing with my life right now. I need to tell the guys that I’m leaving; I just messed things up with the one person who has even remotely got close to breaking down my walls, and I’m being lectured by my mother who thinks I’m a perpetual fuckup.

You have fucked things up…

“You’re almost thirty,” she goes on with dogged determination. “Most of your school friends are married with children right now and—"

“You were married with a child at my age. And you’ve more than made it clear, you weren’t exactly happy.”

My mother sighs, and I wince at the onslaught of guilt. It doesn’t matter that she loves to tell me how sorry she was to have married my father—and that she had to because of me—the fact that I was the one to point it out now is a betrayal.

And this is why I don’t talk to my mother when I can help it. I cannot win with her. What bothers me the most is that I want to. I want her to see me as competent, a success.

“You’re right,” she says in the thick silence. “I wasn’t happy. I got caught up in lust and sex—"

“God, Mom.”

“You’re more than old enough to hear this…”

I’ll never be old enough to hear this. Honestly, I may be traumatized for life after hearing this.

“And it’s important. I thought great sex and strong attraction were enough. But at the end of the day, when the physical wasn’t part of the equation, all we had left was bickering and the knowledge that we chose poorly.”

“Then why didn’t you divorce him?” I snap, exasperated. “Because of me? That’s crap.”

“At first, yes, because of you. And it isn’t crap, Brenna. Sometimes you make sacrifices for your children. But then, when you were older…” She sighs again. “He’s what I know. It felt safer. And I don’t hate your father.”

She just isn’t in love with him.

“When you find someone,” she goes on, softer now. “Let it be someone…steady. Reliable. A friend. Don’t just pick someone simply because they’re good in bed.”

Blinking rapidly, I look off into the distance where the lemon-yellow sunlight lines the black mountainside. Which one did I have with Rye? Was he right when he said it shouldn’t be so hard to know?

Clearing my throat, I turn my attention back to my mother. “Seriously, Mother, why are you talking about all this? What’s going on with you?”

It takes a moment for her to answer. “We’re going to Xander’s party soon.”

The dread in her voice matches my own, but I know it’s for different reasons.

“Yes,” I say, trying to get her to continue with her point.

“You’re going to be with your friends, all of those seemingly happy couples, and that can get to you.”

It bothers the hell out of me that she knows this, that I even feel the slightest twinge of jealousy when I see my friends coupled up. But none of that will be as hard as facing Rye again. That will be agonizing. I let him go. Over a job.

Was it really the job, Bren, or were you running scared?

“Not having your life settled can push you towards making mistakes,” she says.

With a sigh, I slump down in my chair and close my eyes. “That’s what I’m trying to do.”

But talking to my mom has my blood running cold. Because how much of what I fear has to do with the shit she’s put in my head over the years?

It’s worse when her tone changes to slightly pitying. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but I was exactly like you when I was younger. I tied myself to Isabella’s group of friends. I thought it would be my whole life. Then your father…well, I thought I’d have what Isa and Xander had with him. Life left me behind, Brenna. Don’t be like me. Choose your own path. Be…wise.”

I don’t want to see myself as my mother. I never have. I’ve run as far away from her as I could. The idea that I’d inadvertently end up like her horrifies me. I am dizzy and tense.

“Mom…”

“I won’t say any more about it.”

I press a hand to my face and try to breathe.

“Now then. You know your father has a bad back…”

I stiffen, because I know this tone far too well.

“Flying coach doesn’t do him any favors.”

And here is the real reason she called. A dull ache forms behind my eyes. “I’ll send you both first-class tickets today.”

Mom is quiet for a moment, as though she’s contemplating the offer and wanting to refuse. We both know better, though.

“Thank you,” she says finally, like she’s only accepting so as not to offend me.

“It’s my pleasure.” If it will get her off the phone it is.

“Well, I’ll leave you to your day then.” And like that, she’s in a rush to go. I hang up and clutch the phone in the silence of the morning. The sky is light gray now. I should get dressed and start my day, but I’m so tired now I can barely hold my head up.

I let him go. Over a job that no longer holds any excitement for me. Because it means the loss of him.

The dam I’ve built around my heart creaks, straining to open. I let out a shuddering breath. The dam breaks. I curl over myself and cry.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Brenna

 

I fly into Heathrow on my own. Everyone else had coupled up and gone on earlier flights. Not me. That would mean either being a third wheel or sitting with Whip. And Rye.

I haven’t seen him in five weeks. Five freaking weeks.

The first two weeks are on me. Then, right before I returned to New York, Rye went back to Chicago with Whip, and they worked with ShawnE, producing an album for a new artist he’s backing.

I could have called or texted, even gone to see Rye. It isn’t as though I didn’t know where he was staying. But I felt too raw—uncertain. I needed to tell the guys about my decision; Marshall was good with giving me six weeks to settle things on my end. But the words stayed locked in my throat. A bad sign all around.