by Shey Stahl
Ridge stands, his face falters, and he stares at the clock on the wall again. “Lunch is almost over.”
I know it’s my cue to leave, so I stand as well. “Thank you,” I tell him, not knowing what else to say.
He walks me to the door, leaning into it after he opens it for me. “Are you coming to the track tomorrow night?”
I nod, resting my hand on the handle of the door. “Yeah, I take the boys every Saturday night.”
His hand squeezes mine on the handle of the door, just for a second, then he lets go.
As I walk to my car, I can’t help but wonder what just happened. Ridge wasn’t suggestive or teasing this time. He was. . . compassionate, something I wasn’t sure he could be.
Ha. Don’t let him fool you. He’s still the same guy looking for trouble. Compassionate, sure. But still looking for something I didn’t give him ten years ago.
There are things I don’t want to do on Saturday morning before the football game, and meeting my mother for breakfast ranks up there with having my toenails ripped off.
Guess what I’m doing Saturday morning?
Meeting her for breakfast.
Kill me. Please?
I haven’t seen my mother in nearly eleven years. Hadn’t wanted to. Maybe that’s why it takes her a moment to recognize me, or maybe she doesn’t know what to say to me. After all, the last time I was face-to-face with her, I think my last words were, “I never want to see your face again you lying whore.”
Go ahead, take a look. It’s brutal.
“You’re a lying whore, you know that?”
My mother stared at me, dark eyes narrowed. She hated me from the beginning. “You have absolutely no right to judge me, Ridge. You weren’t in my shoes.”
I laughed, bitter and revolted. “You’re goddamn right I wasn’t. I wouldn’t have fucked up like this.”
She stepped toward me, glass from the broken window I threw a vase through crunching under her feet. Her hand raised to slap me, but I caught it. “You need to earn the right to slap me.”
“You will not talk to me like that. I’m your mother.”
I smile. “What are you going to do about it? Have Brooks kick my ass again? Does he know?”
My words shock her. “What are you talking about?”
“I know he’s my biological father, but I’m curious, did you tell Brooks? Did you tell my dad? Does Austin know? Or have you been lying to everyone over the years?”
I know by the look on her face what that meant. They all knew but me.
She’s a goddamn ray of sunshine, isn’t she? Just wait until you meet her.
Do you see that woman in the burgundy floral-print blouse and black dress pants? The one with the jet-black hair that matches mine and the Botox-injected lips?
That is Madalyn Campbell. My mother. She owns this restaurant I’m stepping inside and half the goddamn town of Calistoga. She wants to own the property the race track resides on, and I’m about to ruin her motherfucking day.
I rather excited about it if you can’t tell.
Since I left town and never returned, Madalyn thinks I don’t want anything to do with the track. And while she may have been right, I can’t say it’s entirely true now.
“You look just like your father.”
Eat a dick, bitch. Of course she fucking said that.
And then she’s hugging me tighter than needed. It’s certainly not by accident. She’d probably stick my head in a vice if she thought she could have gotten away with it. “You’re so handsome and grown up.”
Make her stop touching me.
Just so you know. . . she wants me dead. I wouldn’t put it past her to hire a hit man. That’s me being dramatic, but I’m positive she’s never cared too much for her only son. Probably because I didn’t turn out anything like her. Vindictive. Superficial. Controlling. . . all right, that last one’s debatable.
Despite wanting to vomit at the sight of her, I flash my mother a detached smile and allow her to lower my head so she can kiss my forehead one last time. It burns my skin, like being kissed by Hitler.
I used to fuck this chick in college who was Catholic. Becca Hamilton. I know what you’re thinking. Ridge, that’s incredibly random, and Becca has nothing to do with your mother. Oh, but she does. Stay with me.
So this Catholic chick. . . she gave pretty good head. I remember that much, and she had this book beside her bed by Theresa Caputo called There’s More to Life Than This. Have you heard of her? She’s famous for a show called Long Island Medium. Anyway, inside this book which I read while this God-loving bible-in-her-night-stand girl was deep throating my cock, I learned, or at least read that you apparently pick your parents. I know, you’re thinking, you’re reading while she’s sucking you off? Again, story for another day. Focus. You pick your parents.
So this chick says.
If that’s true, what the actual fuck was I thinking when I chose Madalyn Campbell as my mother? Did my spirit think, fuck, she’s perfect for ruining my life, send me down to earth?
I’m still trying to figure out what that book meant, and why I chose Madalyn, but that’s a story for another day.
Finally, Madalyn releases me from her grip and inspects my face closely.
While she’s searching my eyes for warmth she’s never going to find, take a look at her a little closer. Look past the makeup and superficial bullshit like her designer clothes, the perfectly applied lipstick, and you’ll see that nothing will ever cover up the fact that she’s fake.
She fed me lies my entire life and now she wants to play nice? I don’t think so. Never.
“You’ll love the food here.” She nods toward the table in the back.
I wouldn’t put it past her to poison it. Madalyn leads me to a table in the back, telling me about how good the food is and the world renowned chef she hired like I give a goddamn about any of it. I’m not even listening.
Nope. I’m thinking about Aly and that lowcut shirt she’d been wearing at school. Had she done that on purpose? And then my thoughts move immediately to my dad, and him dying and the fact that had he not, I wouldn’t be here now.
At the table, we sit down and neither of us say a word as we flip through the menu, not looking at each other. I’m curious how she’s going to approach the subject of the race track. It’s the only reason she made me come here.
Instead, she waits until the waitress serves us our breakfast. Then she finally speaks up, clearing her throat to draw my attention to her. “Your dad’s funeral was beautiful.”
I stab my eggs with my fork wishing it was her heart, metal grating against porcelain. “Yeah, it was. Too bad it wasn’t yours.”
Too harsh? I think not.
Madalyn’s gaze locks with mine and she reminds me of the Evil Queen in Snow White. There’s a striking resemblance, isn’t there? “Is there a reason why you have been ignoring my phone calls over the years?”
Because I hate you.
“Why don’t you just get to the fucking point, Madalyn. I don’t have all day.” I smile, a bit sinisterly, empting my glass of bourbon. Yep. I’m drinking with breakfast. It’s no wonder my dad was an alcoholic when he was married to her.
“Ridge. . .” She sighs, and my jaw tightens. I hate the way my name sounds rolling off her tongue. It reminds me of all the times she tried to explain to me the reasons why she cheated on my dad, like there was anything to explain. “What are you going to do with that track?” Madalyn asks scowling at me. Now she really looks fucking old. “You don’t know anything about running a business of this nature. You don’t have it in you.”
My fist clenches under the table. Memories of every degrading thing she ever said to me pulses like flashes in my head.
You don’t have it in you to graduate high school.
You don’t have it in you to stay out of trouble.
You don’t have it in you to stay away from Aly.
Okay, maybe she didn’t say the last one. I did, but regardless, you
understand where this is going, don’t you?
I hold rights to something Madalyn wants, and that’s the only reason I’m sitting here with her now. Does she honestly think I’m going to give her anything?
Sure, she’s right on some level. I don’t know what I’m doing running a race track, but I’m not about to let her know that.
“Well fuck.” I lift my brows. “Seems like you’ve got it all figured out, don’t you?”
“What are you going to do with it? You don’t even live here.”
I offer a smile. “I do now.”
Oh, look at that glare I’m getting. I pissed her off.
“Sell me the property.” Her tone is clipped, and surprise, surprise, she’s no longer pretending to be nice. If you look close enough, horns are coming out of her head, and she’s turning red. “I’ll make you a lucrative offer.”
She watches me, waiting on my reaction and honestly, she looks a little like she wishes she would have drowned me at birth. I can’t imagine hating a child that much, especially one who came from you.
Although Arrow is certainly one I question her parents’ motives. I’m kidding, kinda.
There’s just no fucking way I’m letting Madalyn Campbell have anything. “Sorry, Madalyn. I’m keeping the track.”
“You’re keeping it?” She laughs, as though the idea of me doing anything with my life is entertaining to her. “What in the hell would possess you to do that? You haven’t lived here for ten years and you all of a sudden you are going to run a track you hated growing up?”
“Who said I hated the track?” My fingers tightening around the glass of bourbon. “The only thing I’ve ever hated in this town is you.”
And Brooks. . . and Austin, but whatever.
Her dark eyes tighten. “So you’re not going to sell it to me?”
Look at her. She’s having a hard time understanding why I’d say no to her. It’s certainly not a word she hears often.
“Nope.” I shake my head feeling pretty good about my answer. “But thanks for this, Madalyn. Seeing you again only reminded me of how much I hate you and that I’ll never be anything like you.” I smile and silently wish it was legal to stab her with the knife on the table.
“Have you forgotten the connections I have in this town, Ridge?” Madalyn glares, her eyes hard. She’s going to pull the clout card. Nice touch.
“No, I haven’t forgotten. I just don’t give a shit, and that kills you. Unfortunately, not literally.” I wink, downing the remainder of my bourbon and stand, looking down at her. “I’m not selling you the track so you can fucking forget about it.”
I wouldn’t give this woman a goddam thing.
Mornings in our house are organized and everyone gets up in a happy mood. Birds sing outside, it’s sunny, and I cook breakfast for my loving, grateful children, pancakes with chocolate chips, whip cream, and sausage.
Do you believe me?
What a crock of shit, right? In truth, a portion of that statement is accurate.
I did cook them breakfast, but organization isn’t in the cards, and my house looks like Edward Scissorhands made the meal.
And the grateful children? Assholes. Plain and simple. I feel bad calling them assholes but come on, everyone with children knows from time to time, they are all assholes.
Sunny day? Nope. It’s raining, actually, no, take a look, it’s fucking pouring outside, water splashing up from the sidewalk outside the kitchen window like it’s coming from the concrete as opposed to the sky.
Cash is a monster to get out of bed, and Grady, he’s too perfect and makes me feel lazy.
But I try.
“Come on, dudes.” I pull open their navy blue Pottery Barn curtains I had to have for their room, and they hate. “Mommy is running late this morning, and breakfast is on the table.”
Cash rolls over and buries his head in a mountain of blankets, grunting and kicking his feet. Grady. . . he’s on time for everything. Cash couldn’t care less about school and would sleep until noon every day if I let him.
Grady pops up out of bed, bright-eyed and smiles. “It’s game day!”
See? So much enthusiasm and it’s only nine in the morning.
I point at them. “Get dressed.”
The smells of chocolate and bacon fill the house, but my stomach twists as I walk out of their room and down the hall to the kitchen. Not because I feel sick, but because I don’t like rushing in the mornings. I like things to be orderly and well, smooth.
Have I mentioned lately I like things to be perfect? I do. Case in point, I like Ikea furniture because on the box it tells you exactly how long it takes to put it together.
I like knowing what I’m getting into. I thought, when I married Austin, I knew what I was getting into, but this just in, I don’t always know. Crazy thought, huh?
I pour myself a second cup of coffee and wait. Still no kids.
After yelling down the hall a third time, Grady comes in the kitchen, hair slicked back, football gear dragging behind him. He stops at the sliding glass door, yawning. “There’s another cat at the door, Mom. Can I name this one?”
Maybe I shouldn’t be putting out so much food at night.
I look out the window. Guess what’s outside? Not a cat. A raccoon. I sigh. I thought those damn things were nocturnal? “That’s not a cat, bud. That’s a raccoon.”
“Can we call him Cooter?”
Cooter?
I eye my boy in his black T-shirt that reads Thug Life, and underwear. No pants on. “Absolutely.” I pause for the dramatics, drinking my coffee slowly and he’s hopeful. “Not.”
Cash comes down the hall—thankfully in his football gear—minus his shirt. Together they’re fully dressed.
My phone rings on the counter. Grady picks it up while Cash stares at the raccoon begging for more food outside the door. “Can we keep him?” he asks, smiling for the first time in days.
Man, why’d he smile over a raccoon?
“We can’t keep him. They have rabies.”
“Mommy, Daddy is calling you.” Grady hands me my phone. “Do you think he’s going to come to our game?”
“Probably not,” Cash mumbles, still staring at the raccoon who’s giving them both sad eyes. Like, let me in, little people, and I’ll attack your face, but in a sweet way.
“Not sure, buddy. I’ll see.” I smile because the one thing I refuse to do is promise them something I can’t keep. I pick my phone up but stare at the boys. “Cash, go find a shirt and, Grady, dude, ya need pants.” Sliding my finger over the screen, I fight the urge to answer with a, “Hey, cheating asshole,” but I don’t. Kids and all. Instead, I answer with, “Please tell me you’re coming.”
That’s an acceptable way to answer, right?
“I’m trying.” I can hear voices around him, loud ones like he’s at a restaurant. “What time is their game again?”
Goddamn you son of a bitch!
I know exactly where this is leading, don’t you? “Eleven thirty.”
He’s quiet. Not a word for something like fifteen seconds. Kneeling near the sliding glass door, I try to wave Cooter—yep, named him even when I said I wouldn’t—away from the door and whisper in the phone, “Austin, they really want you there.”
“I know that, Alyson,” he snaps, “but I’m in a meeting in San Francisco. I can’t just up and leave.”
San Francisco. San Fran-fucking-cisco. That’s over an hour and a half drive.
“So what am I supposed to tell them? That you’re not coming, again?”
“I can’t just take off whenever they have sports going on. I have a job.”
Is that sarcasm I hear? Sure sounds like it to me. It’s like he’s mocking me, saying, “Well, Aly, if you had a job you’d understand this. But you don’t so you don’t get to judge me.”
“I know that.” I hear the boys fighting in the garage as they look for their gear. “But don’t tell them you’re going to come and then you don’t.”
An
d then I hang up on him. Because I fucking can.
“Is Daddy coming?” Grady asks, shuffling through his bag, his hair soaked, water dripping from his nose. “He promised he’d be here for this game.”
Yeah, well, he promised to be faithful too and look how that turned out.
“I don’t know, honey. He said he’d try, but he’s in a meeting.”
Tori snorts, as though she knows. I sigh, shaking my head when Cash glares in the direction of the parking lot, and then the field and walks toward the other players warming up.
My shoulders roll forward, that ever-present churning in my stomach returning, and I reach for my phone to see if Austin’s called or sent a message.
Nothing. I know what’s going to happen, don’t you?
Same thing that happened at the open house before school started. Austin said he was coming and then didn’t and I had to deal with the consequences of his promise to Cash.
When I signed the boys up for football over the summer, I thought, hey, it’s California, the weather will be perfect. And now here I sit in the rain on metal bleachers hiding under an umbrella.
I look to Tori beside me, her blonde hair stuffed under a Cubs hat, drinking her coffee and frowning. “Where’s the sun, damn it? I hate the cold.”
Ada’s at her feet, bundled up for the cool morning. Tori’s holding onto the hood of her jacket as if that’s going to keep the rambunctious toddler from getting away.
I zip up my jacket until it’s choking me, and then pull the zipper down just a bit. I don’t like anything around my neck unless it’s a man’s hands and he’s. . . well, you get it, right? Wink, wink. I’ve mentioned it’s been a while, right? My mind is constantly on sex. I feel like a teenager again. “You and me both.”
Tori takes a slow slip of the coffee, then tilts the cup Ridge’s direction. “Think the races will get canceled?”
“Probably. It’s not looking promising.”
My eyes drift to the one presence here I can’t possibly ignore. Ridge. He’s on the sidelines, his black and green Calistoga Cubs rain jacket beading with drops of water. With a clenched jaw, he pulls the hood up. From here, his eyes look so dark. Ridge doesn’t make eye contact very often. It’s not from intimidation as most would think. It’s from vulnerability and his indifference to most around him.