Pretty Little Mistake

I startle awake with the realization that I can’t breathe. For a split second I think that I’m dreaming, but I quickly realize that’s not the case at all. I am in fact awake and suffocating because my fat cat is lying on top of my chest.

I pick him up and lay him on the other side of the bed with a groan. “Cheddar, what the fuck?”

He just blinks his overly large owlish eyes at me, not even giving me a meow in response.

Groaning, I sit up and press a hand to my aching head. I went out with some colleagues last night and drank too much. I wasn’t drunk, but it was enough to make me regret my choices this morning. At least it’s the weekend.

After rolling out of bed, I head to the shower, hoping that’ll help me clear my head, even if I should really go to the gym. My stomach rolls at the thought of working out. Maybe later.

I wouldn’t have drunk as much as I did last night if I hadn’t been avoiding the temptation to contact a certain someone. A someone who should not be on my mind as much as she is. We had two working lunches this week, and it shouldn’t have been as difficult as it was to resist the urge to touch her. I found my hand hovering at the small of her back while we were in line but quickly pulled my hand away like I’d touched scalding water.

All too quickly I was letting Lennon get under my skin, falling into old patterns. It had to stop.

When I get out of the shower, Cheddar is still snoozing on the bed—the traitor—despite my phone ringing incessantly from where it’s plugged in.

Cinching the towel tighter on my waist, I pull the plug from my phone and answer with a gruff “Hello?”

“Ah, my favorite son.” My mom’s laughter fills the phone. “I haven’t heard from you in a few days. I was worried.”

“Sorry.” I walk into my closet and grab a pair of jeans to tug on. I put her on speaker while I change. “I’ve been busy.” Normally, I talk to my mom daily, but I’ve been swamped, so the one thing I haven’t been able to accomplish is checking in on her.

“I know.” She says it in a way that I know isn’t meant to make me feel bad but does anyway. It’s this soft, resigned tone that says she understands but misses me. “I’m coming to the city today. Would we be able to grab an early dinner?”

It’s not that I don’t want to see her, but she’ll ask questions about work, life, and so on. I should tell her about Lennon—she might even know already—but . . .

But I need to see my mom. No matter the number of excuses I can come up with, telling her no would be wrong.

“Sure,” I finally say. “Dinner would be great.”

“Oh good!” I can actually hear her clap to herself, which makes me feel like a dick for even considering saying no to her. “I’ll make reservations and text you the details. Love you!”

Most people wouldn’t be able to get reservations anywhere in Manhattan at the drop of a hat, but once she mentions her last name, all doors will be open.

“Love you, too, Mom. See you tonight.”

With the conversation over, I head to my kitchen and set out Cheddar’s breakfast. It’s no surprise when he comes running out of the bedroom yowling at the sound of the kibble in the bowl. Despite the diet the vet has put him on, I don’t think he’s lost any weight. If I’m forced to reduce his portions again, I’m almost certain he’ll plot some sort of grisly murder scenario for me.

I open the fridge and search through what I have for my own breakfast. I’m sorely lacking in food supplies at the moment and need to make a run to the store or else have some groceries delivered. My head gives a dull throb—yeah, delivery it is.

I have enough to make a simple egg sandwich, and I hope like hell the food will help me feel better. I pop some ibuprofen as well. Even though it’ll be hours before I meet up with my mom, I know I need to get myself together. Showing up in my current state will only disappoint her.

After sitting down on the couch with my food, something I don’t do that often, I put the TV on and scroll through the news channels. Cheddar hops up beside me, rubbing his body against mine.

I glare at him. “Now you love me? You tried to kill me in my sleep.”

“Meow.”

“Bastard,” I grunt, but can’t help but smile at the cat. I really do love him. As I scratch behind his ears, he starts to purr, rubbing himself against me for more pets.

A text comes through with the details on dinner. I figure I’ll go visit my bio-dad before meeting her. I’m sure if I asked, she’d come with me. Both she and my dad have mentioned wanting to meet him, but I’ve always felt weird about it. I’m not even sure why that is. I think maybe it comes from the part of me that’s never felt worthy of them.

Maybe one day I’ll feel different about my worth, but today isn’t that day.

The restaurant is crowded when I arrive, which I expected—doesn’t mean I’m pleased about it, though. With my immense dislike of people in general, I’m not sure why I even live in Manhattan.

I give my name at the front, and then I’m quickly guided to a private room tucked away from everyone else. Holding my breath as I enter, I find my mom seated at the table. I expected my dad to be with her, even though she didn’t mention him, but she’s alone.

She stands from the table, arms open wide. “My boy.”

I wrap my arms around her, and despite the fact that I tower above her, I always somehow manage to feel like a kid again when I hug her. “Hey, Mom.” I kiss her cheek, letting her go so she can sit. “How have you been?”

“Good.” She carefully smooths her dress. “I’d be better if my only son reached out more.” She arches a brow. “You dropped off the face of the earth the past few weeks. It felt like pulling teeth to get you to even reply to a text message. And don’t get me started on how you never come home to visit anymore. We miss you, Beckham.”

I’m not surprised by her little speech, but I sigh anyway. “I’ve been busy with work.”

“Hmm.” She eyes me skeptically. “You’ve never been so busy before that you ignored me—what’s changed?”

“Just a lot going on.” Like Lennon being back in the picture. My eyes scan the menu. “The magazine is growing rapidly.”

She sighs, adjusting her glasses on her nose so she can better give me what I’ve dubbed “the mom stare.” It’s a simple look that tells me immediately she’s disappointed in me.

“And how is that an excuse to neglect your poor ole mom?” She winks, then removes her reading glasses to set them on top of the now-closed menu. “Surely you have more going on in your life than work? A woman, maybe?”

I’m saved from answering—for the moment at least—by the waiter arriving for our order. He’s no more than left when she widens her eyes, a silent reminder that I’m not getting out of answering this question.

“Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m still very much single.” Lennon’s face pops into my mind, and I push it away. Now’s not the time to be thinking of her.

“A boyfriend, then?”

“Mom.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’m not gay.”

“Okay”—she takes a sip of water—“but it wouldn’t be a problem if you were. I just want . . .” She pauses, inhaling a heavy breath that rattles out of her chest. “I want you to be happy, Beckham.”

“I don’t need a wife to be happy.”

“I know, but the problem is you’re not happy now, either, and don’t even try to argue with me.” She raises her pointer finger in warning. “I’m your mom and know you better than anyone else. You’re going through the motions, day by day, but you’re not really living.”

“I haven’t met the right person.” Again, Lennon crosses my mind. I tug at the collar of my button-down. It suddenly feels a bit snug. Is it hot in here? “I need a drink,” I grumble, rubbing my damp palms on my pants.

Why the fuck am I sweating?

“Your water is right there, dear,” she says with a smirk, knowing perfectly well that’s not the kind of drink I’m referring to.

“Alcohol—that’s what I need.”

“Beckham,” she admonishes, fighting a smile at my expense. “Are you telling me that my motherly concern drives you to drink? I’m hurt, honey. Besides, how can you meet the right person when you hardly go out, or so I hear?”

“How do you know this shit?”

“Beckham,” she warns, and I’m a teenager again, being scolded for vulgar language.

“Stuff,” I correct.

“I know people.” She smiles over the rim of her wineglass. I’m glad at least one of us has alcohol for this conversation. “I spoke with Deidre Wells this past week.” Oh fuck. “She was telling me that Lennon is working for a magazine in the city too. What a coincidence. She couldn’t remember the name.” She taps her lips in thought. “Surely you remember her? You were such good friends with her, and Hunter too.”

Yeah, until I took her virginity and fucked everything up.

“I remember her.” How could I not? It hasn’t been that long.

“Maybe you should reach out to her,” she suggests casually, her pink nails tapping against the table despite the fact that she’s very obviously meddling. “You could give her some advice.”

“Advice?”

She smirks like she’s caught me. “With the job.”

“Right.” Why didn’t I order a fucking drink?

“I have her number. I’ll give it to you before we leave. Deidre also said she’s single.”

“Is that the reason for this dinner? Are you trying to concoct some kind of marriage arrangement between Lennon and me?”

It might be surprising to some, but in the world of the elite, arranged marriages happen often. It’s a way to connect names, build more wealth. But even I can’t stand the idea of love being reduced to nothing more than a business transaction.

“No.” She looks ready to throttle me for even suggesting she would do such a thing. “How could you think that?”

I shrug, reaching for my water glass since it’s the only form of liquid I have access to at the moment. “You never made any secret that you liked the idea of us together.” I look away before she can see too much in my eyes. The last thing I need is her seeing how I used to imagine a future for us. That version of myself feels like a ghost now. That guy wasn’t nearly as jaded.

“I would’ve been blind not to see how infatuated the two of you were with each other. I couldn’t help but root for you.”

I give a gruff, irritated laugh. “That ship has sailed.”

There was never even a ship to begin with. Not really.

She waves a dismissive hand in the air. “Forget I said anything. I want to know if you plan to actually make it home for the holidays this year.” I open my mouth to reply, but she cuts me off. “Don’t give me some vague response or lie to me like the past three years, where you said you’d come but canceled at the last second.”

“Things came up.” No, they didn’t. I just didn’t want to return to the Connecticut mansion. Being back there is nothing but a reminder of what I’m not and what I can never have.

“Don’t lie to me. I may be getting older, but my mind still works. I’ve let you off the hook, but no more. I want you to come home. We miss you.”

I rub my jaw. It’s that “We miss you” that gets me. I’ve never ever wanted to break my parents’ hearts, not when they’ve done so much for me, and they love me like I truly am theirs.

I count to five, taking a deep breath as I do. “Okay. I’ll come home for the holidays.”

Thanksgiving is still a few months off, but it’s enough time that maybe something really will come up this time.

She beams, tears flooding her eyes. “Good. Thank you. It means a lot to me—having you back home.”

Her words are like a stab to the heart, and I know that even if something does come up, there’s no chance now that I’ll let it derail me from making my mom happy.

I hope someone rolls out the red carpet, because I’m coming home all too soon.