Beg For Me: Chapter 31

When I go downstairs for breakfast, I find my mother at the stove, flipping pancakes on a griddle.

“Coffee’s on,” she says over her shoulder. “Do you still like your eggs scrambled?”

I take a moment to think on what I’m going to do about this strange person commandeering my kitchen, then decide I don’t have the energy for this fight and sit at the table.

“Harlow’s still asleep. I checked on her.” When I don’t respond, she chuckles. “Don’t get excited. I’m only making breakfast.”

“That’s like a tornado saying it’s only a little wind.”

“You’re in a bad mood. What’s happened?”

“Take a walk over to that mirror and find out.”

She clucks her tongue and turns to peer at me.

“Please don’t pretend you’re concerned. I don’t have the mental bandwidth to deal with your delusions today.”

She stares at me for a beat, then shrugs and turns back to the stove where she busies herself acting like a harmless grandmother. I look at her cardigan and orthopedic shoes, wondering where she’s hiding the cleaver.

She pours two cups of coffee, sets one in front of me and the other at the seat across the table. She plates a stack of pancakes and sets that in front of me too, then brings over the butter dish and a jar of maple syrup. Next comes cutlery and a napkin, which she folds into a triangle like we’re in a restaurant. Then she steps back and props her hands on her hips, staring at me expectantly.

“Well? Aren’t you going to eat?”

I look warily at the pancakes. “Are they poisoned?”

“No, but the coffee is.” Chortling, she heads to the fridge and takes out the carton of eggs.

I watch her crack them into a bowl and mix them up with a whisk, wondering if this is an alternate universe. Maybe the other version of me—the one without the wacko mother, treacherous ex-husband, or threatening boss—is living her best life on the sun deck of a luxury cruise ship sailing through the islands of Croatia.

“You need a new mattress in the guest room. There’s an unholy lump in the middle that kept me tossing and turning all night. I was very uncomfortable.”

Picturing it, I smile.

She pours the eggs into a pan and starts to poke at them with a wooden spoon that looks exactly like the spoon from Carter’s kitchen.

As if she can read my mind, she says, “So. This man child you’re dating. He’s very pretty, Sophia, but I know you can’t be serious about him. You’re too smart for that.”

I think rage is becoming my primary emotion. Simmering in it, I say, “I know you’re aware that cutlery can be used for things other than eating food.”

When she turns to look at me, I stab the stack of pancakes with the fork, then saw through it viciously with the knife, looking at her the whole time.

Criminal mastermind that she is, she’s unfazed. “You think your love life isn’t my business.”

“Correct. Because it’s not.”

“You’re my daughter. Everything about you is my business.”

“Since when?”

“Since forever.”

I hack away at the pancakes, wishing it was her neck. “You’re skating on very thin ice, Mother.”

She plates herself some food, then sits across from me and digs in, contemplating me as she chews.

“Give me two minutes, then I’ll never mention this Carter boy again.”

I groan. “You’re exhausting, you know that?”

She waves her fork to silence me. “He makes you feel good. Of course he does. He’s gorgeous, and he’s obviously very taken with you. The sex is probably fantastic.” She shrugs. “Big deal. That’s good for a few months, a year if you’re lucky. Then what? I’ll tell you what. He starts to get bored.”

I stare up at the ceiling and mutter, “Where’s a sudden heart attack when you need one?”

“Bah. There’s nothing physically wrong with me.”

“Physically.”

“You wouldn’t be sensitive about the topic if you thought I was wrong.”

That was a challenge, but she might have a point, so I eat my pancakes as if nothing she can say will bother me. If it does, I’ll lock her out in the backyard.

Too bad we don’t have a basement.

“Or maybe you get bored. Maybe you don’t want to go skydiving or Bungee jumping or whatever ridiculous activities he’s into because you’d rather sit home and read a nice book like an adult. You’d rather go to the cinema or a museum than lift weights or train for the Tour de France.”

That last thing was a little too close to home. I eat, gaze on my plate, trying not to picture Carter in his yellow Lycra cycling gear and trying not to listen.

“Even if it did outlast the initial physical attraction, you’ll always be significantly older than he is. Picture yourself ten years from now. Twenty. Maybe you have health issues. Maybe you don’t have much energy anymore. Maybe you become something nobody wants to become: a burden.”

I say acidly, “You would know all about that.”

“How will he fit in with your friends? How will you fit in with his?”

I picture three beautiful young blondes in tight athletic wear and want to strangle her.

She says softly, “How will you feel the first time someone mistakes you for his mother?”

When I glare at her with murder in my eyes, she lifts a shoulder.

“It won’t be too soon. You’ve taken good care of yourself. But when you hit menopause in a few years, Sophia, everything changes. Aging accelerates. Even with the best care, our looks fade.”

She pauses before going in for the kill. “And what if he wants children?”

“You’re ruthless,” I say flatly.

“He’s a young man. He might not be ready now, but eventually, he’ll want a family.”

“Maybe he already has kids.”

“Does he?”

We stare at each other across the table until she shakes her head “No. I didn’t think so. He might tell you now that he doesn’t care about children. He might even mean it. But a few years from now when he’s really ready to settle down, this fun affair will fall apart because you can’t give him what he needs.”

“This is the worst thing anyone’s ever said to me, and that’s saying a lot.”

“The truth is always awful. That’s why nobody ever tells it.”

I’m angry, and I’m hurt, and I’m fucking mortified because I know she’s right.

Deep down, I know she’s right about everything.

“Look at me, Sophia.”

I meet her eyes. She almost looks sympathetic.

“I know you. You don’t take love lightly. Like you did with Nick, you commit heart and soul, even when all the warning signs are flashing in your face. Do you remember me telling you not to marry him?”

Teeth clenched, I say, “I thought you were just being your usual ray-of-sunshine self.”

“He wasn’t right for you, but you couldn’t see it. You’re older and wiser now. And you have Harlow. You can’t afford to make another mistake. It’s not only your heart you’re looking after. You have responsibilities bigger than yourself.”

I made almost the exact same argument to Brittany. My chest is so tight, it’s hard to breathe.

Silence reigns for a moment, then my mother says brightly, “Time’s up! I won’t mention it again. How are the eggs?”

Dazed, I stare down at my plate and realize I’ve lost my appetite.