It’s not.

It’s worse.

It’s my mother.

28

“Mother,” I say. “What are you doing here?”

She brushes past me, then looks critically around the room, her nose wrinkling. After a moment, she walks to the dining table, then uses the tips of her fingers to pull out the chair. She takes a tissue from her purse, brushes the seat, and sits. She folds her hands in front of her on the table and keeps her back straight.

I follow and flop down in the chair opposite. I prop my elbow on the table and rest my chin on my fist.

My mother smiles at me. The same fake smile she reserves for cashiers and gas station attendants.

I try again. “Why are you in LA?”

“I would think that was obvious,” she says. “I came to help.”

Granted my brain is a little fuzzy, but I don’t know what she’s talking about.

“With Damien Stark,” she says, and my stomach clenches tight.

“What are you talking about, Mother?”

“I saw the picture, of course. And the caption. Why you didn’t tell me a man like Damien Stark was courting you, I don’t know. But it’s the first good news I’ve heard about this move to Los Angeles.”

I stare blankly at her.

“Well, darling, really. If you’re trying to marry a man like Damien Stark, you want to make sure not to disappoint. He can so easily move on to another woman.”

Yeah. Easy. As far as I know, he already has.

She looks me up and down, her lips a thin line. “Clearly we have a lot of work to do.” She pulls her phone out of her Chanel handbag. “What’s the best spa nearby? We’ll focus on your makeup first. Thank goodness your hair is still stunning, even if it is filthy. We’ll get the ends trimmed, of course. Then a new wardrobe and then this apartment. If Jamie is particularly attached to any of these things, she can put them in storage.”

“I broke up with him, Mother.”

I swear to God, my mother turns green.

“You what?” From her tone, you would have thought I’d told her that I only had twenty-four hours to live. “Why on earth would you do something so foolish?”

“Why?” I open my mouth, grappling for something to say. “Because he has some truly fucked-up control issues. Does that sound familiar?”

She stands up, her movements slow and practiced the way she always moves when she’s angry. A lady doesn’t show emotion. A lady doesn’t spout off. “You little fool,” she says, calmly and coldly. “You always were too smart for your own good. Only Nichole knew best. Only Nichole knew what to do.”

“For Nichole, yeah, Mother, that’s right. Only Nichole knows what Nichole wants.”

Her face is pinched so tight I can see where her makeup is caking and cracking. “You are spoiled and ungrateful. I can’t believe I took time out of my schedule to fly out here and see you. I am going to go back to my hotel, and you think about your life. About what you want and where you’re going and what you’re throwing away. And when you can talk calmly and rationally, I’ll come back.”

And then she turns on her heel and marches to the door and leaves. She doesn’t even slam it.

I sit there, numb. I know I should move, but I can’t. I just sit and stare and feel like I’m floating out of myself.

I don’t know if it’s been fifteen minutes or fifteen hours when my leg starts to cramp and I have to move. I glance down and realize my hand is still in a fist. I open it slowly and see the indentations from my fingernails, some so deep they’ve almost drawn blood.

I stare at my hand as I get up. I don’t realize I’m doing it as I walk into the kitchen. We have a knife block, and I take out a paring knife. I turn on the gas burner, because even in my haze I know I should sterilize the blade, and there’s no alcohol in the kitchen and I can’t leave the kitchen because then I won’t have the courage.

I wave the knife through the flame and then wait for it to cool. I press the blade against the soft flesh of my inner arm. A new place for a new pain. I start to slice—and then I violently hurl the knife across the room. It crashes into the wall, leaving a dent in the drywall.

Everything is blurry now, and I realize I’m crying. I stand up and turn a circle in the kitchen. I’m lost—so fucking lost—and despite everything it’s Damien that I want right now. Damien’s arms around me, holding and comforting me.

No, no, goddammit, no!

I snatch the kitchen scissors off the drainboard, then retreat to the corner by the dishwasher. I slide down to the floor and without thinking, I take a chunk of hair and cut it off. Then another. Then another until there is a pile of hair around me.

I look at it, run my fingers through it. That hair my mother loves so much. That hair that Damien loves, too.

I pull my knees up to my chest and hug them tight. Then I put my head down and I sob.

I don’t remember going to my room. I don’t remember getting in bed. But when I open my eyes, Damien is beside me, his eyes sad and soft.

“Hey,” he says.

Damien. My heart seems to swell and the blackness that’s been clinging to me dissipates.

He reaches out and strokes my hair.

I sit up, remembering. My hair.

“It could use some cleaning up,” he says gently. “But I think it looks cute short.”

“Why are you here? How did you know?”

“Jamie,” he says. “I’ve been calling her for days, checking on you. I thought you needed space. But then this, with your mother …”

I nod, vaguely remembering Jamie tucking me into bed and me telling her that my mother had come by. I can’t repress my shiver at the thought of seeing her again. “She’s still here,” I say. “In town, I mean.”

“No,” he says. “She’s not.”

I look at him.

“I went to her hotel. I told her she needed to leave. And then I sent her home on the jet.” Amusement lights his eyes. “Grayson’s been dying to take her out for a long flight, so this was just the ticket. And your mother seemed thrilled by the prospect of a private jet.”

I stare at him with awed amazement. “Thank you.”

“Whatever you need, baby. I told you.”

I shake my head. “No. Damien, I’m sorry. I—we can’t.”

He stands, and though I expect anger on his face, all I see is concern. “Because of Sara?”

I don’t meet his eyes.