Evie laughed and thought about denying it, but Jessica would just relentlessly persist until she admitted the truth. “Maybe. Just a little,” she conceded, allowing herself to enjoy the infatuated feeling, only because she knew there was nothing real about the relationship. It was all just physical attraction and fun playacting, and she was okay with that. “I’m only a smitten kitten because he’s really good at his job and providing the whole boyfriend experience.”
“Okay, if that’s what you want to tell yourself,” Scarlett added in a droll tone. “But from our perspective, he didn’t look like he was faking anything.”
She shook her head and rolled her eyes, ready to move on from all the attention focused on her. “Your entertainment for the morning is over and I need to get to work.” Evie waved away all the women but her client, Marcy, who she led to her station with her coffee in her hand to enjoy while Marcy’s highlights were processing.
As Evie started her day, she realized that there was one thing that she and Eric hadn’t settled on yet . . . what his fee would be for his time and service for four days. She knew he probably wasn’t cheap, but he was definitely worth whatever price he charged because he was that good.
CHAPTER FIVE
Just like every other Sunday at four o’clock in the afternoon, Eric parked his car in the driveway of the small three-bedroom childhood home where he’d grown up and where his mother now lived by herself as a part of the divorce settlement she’d received from Eric’s father almost ten years ago.
On the passenger seat next to him were two bags of groceries and a bouquet of flowers that he’d picked up at the market. Same routine, different weekend, not that his mother ever noticed his efforts. Or if Ginny Miller did recognize his attempts to bring some normalcy to their lives, she didn’t mention it or thank him for the meal he cooked or make him feel like he had a place in the house anymore since it was now filled with an overbearing sadness and bittersweet memories he couldn’t compete with.
At this point in his life, he’d accepted that his mother’s aloof manner would probably never change, and even knowing that painful truth, he also knew it wouldn’t stop him from visiting her. Despite the huge disconnect between them, he was still her son, she was still his mother, and he refused to cut her off emotionally the way she had him when his twin sister, Trisha, had died at the age of sixteen.
He exhaled what felt like a weary, soul-deep sigh as his gaze took in the front of the house, remembering much happier times when the Millers had been the equivalent of a picture-perfect Rockwell family. His parents hadn’t been rich, but they’d been loving and focused on making their kids’ lives their priority.
Up until he and Trisha had turned fifteen, the four of them had spent idyllic summer vacations at the beach together. Even with Trisha in soccer and Eric in football, their parents had always found a way to attend their sporting events and cheer them on. Eric had spent endless hours with his father in the garage, tinkering with car parts and learning how to rebuild an engine, while his sister and mom spent the weekends out in the backyard, tending to the roses and garden they’d nurtured together.
Despite normal squabbles with his sister heading into their teen years, as twins they’d been best friends. All his life, Trisha had been his person, his other half of that twin connection they’d shared from birth, and when she’d died as he held her hand, he knew he’d never be the same again. Sitting at her bedside, with Trisha’s thin, weary body finally succumbing to the awful leukemia that ravaged her for the past year, he’d felt his heart being ripped painfully from his chest during those last few gasps. She’d taken a huge piece of him with her when she’d drawn her last breath, leaving an eternal void he felt even now.
His heart had shattered that day, in a way he never wanted to experience ever again. With Trisha gone, he’d felt so lost and alone and empty inside, with no one to turn to for comfort because his parents had been wrapped up in their own grief and anger over the loss of their daughter, leaving Eric to blindly find his own way through the pain and sorrow eating him up inside.
A house that had once been filled with love, laughter, and happiness had been cast with a pallor of sadness and despair. Once Trisha had been buried, his parents stopped talking and touching and spent more time apart than together. His dad deliberately worked long hours, and his mother had withdrawn into a deep, dark depression where she slept for days, and when she was awake for any length of time, she operated on autopilot.
And Eric . . . well, he’d realized that he’d not only lost his best friend and twin sister, but he’d lost his entire family all in one fell swoop.
The two years following Trisha’s death had been excruciating, mentally and emotionally, and it had been a huge relief to Eric when his estranged parents finally divorced and he’d moved into a dorm at San Diego State University. Being out of the bleak and oppressive situation on a daily basis, he’d finally been able to breathe and make some kind of new normal for himself.
But there was no denying how much he missed Trisha and how badly her death had affected him and still did. Survivor’s guilt had plagued him for years, and even though a part of him had come to peace with the situation, there were still triggers that brought back the heartache and pain of losing her. The birthday they’d once shared and the date of her death were still his hardest days to get through.
But today was about spending time with his mother, Eric reminded himself. Grabbing the two plastic-handled grocery bags and the cellophane-wrapped flowers, he got out of the car and started up the walkway to the front of the house. Halfway there, a monarch butterfly fluttered around his head, and he smiled, feeling his sister’s presence near him.
He wasn’t one to normally believe in the supernatural, but his sister had been obsessed with butterflies growing up, and they’d been naturally drawn to Trisha, trusting her enough to land on her shoulder or her hand. Eric had always been envious because they’d always given him a wide berth, probably because he hadn’t been as gentle as his sister, but a few weeks after she’d passed, he’d been in the front yard when a monarch started annoying the crap out of him . . . flying in front of his face, landing on his head, and ignoring his attempts to shoo the pesky insect away.
In a moment of weird clarity, he’d known this was his sister’s way of visiting him, to let him know that she was okay and watching over him . . . not that he’d ever told anyone about his occasional encounter with those monarch butterflies. But their presence always calmed and reassured him in a way he couldn’t explain.
“I miss you, Trish,” he whispered, and with that, the butterfly swirled one more time around his head before flying away.
He continued to the front porch, and knowing the door would be locked, as it always was, and his mother was probably in the backyard, like she always was, he tucked the flowers under one arm so he could use his key to let himself inside. Everything was predictably quiet as he closed the door, the drawn drapes in the living room making the house much too dark and somber. But that, too, was normal.
As he headed into the kitchen, he passed by the long, decorative table his mother had set up as a memorial for Trish after she’d died. A crystal cut vase held beautiful white roses that he knew his mother replaced every single day and at least a dozen framed photographs of his sister, from infant stage all the way to age fifteen lined the table . . . the last picture having been taken right before her cancer diagnosis, when she still looked healthy and happy.
With that abrupt end to the framed photos, it was always a reminder to Eric of a life cut too short. Just like the last time he’d dared to look into his sister’s bedroom years ago and found it the same exact way it had been the day she’d been taken to the hospital for the last time. Untouched. Preserved. It still looked like the room of a sixteen-year-old girl.
Unlike Eric’s bedroom, which his mother had turned into a reading room for herself, with all traces of his childhood gone.
In the kitchen, he set the bags and flowers
on the counter, and a glance out the window above the sink confirmed that his mother was, in fact, out back, tending to the same garden and white roses that she and Trish had planted together so long ago.
He didn’t bother telling his mother he was there. She knew what time he always arrived on Sunday, and she’d eventually make her way inside. Instead, he unloaded the items he’d bought at the market and started making dinner for the two of them, always preparing more than needed so she’d have leftovers for a few days. An hour later, he was pulling baked ziti from the oven when his mother came through the sliding glass door leading into the house from the backyard.
She was in an old, faded T-shirt and a pair of those pants that women wore that ended at her calves. Her hair, which once was a sleek bob and had been a dark russet brown, was now unruly curls with more gray than color. She hadn’t made the effort to wear makeup in a very long time, and while he’d always think of his mother as beautiful, he couldn’t help but compare this plain version of Ginny Miller to the vibrant woman who used to take pride in her appearance.
“Hi, Mom,” he said, walking over to place a kiss on her cheek, which she offered up to him. She smelled like sunshine and dirt . . . when he once remembered her being wrapped in the scent of the chocolate chip cookies she used to make for him and Trish. “How are you doing today?”
“Good,” she replied automatically as she washed her hands in the sink and gave him a small smile that was only a fraction of what it had once been, in happier times. “And you?”
He slathered a few slices of French bread with the garlic butter he’d made and set them on a baking sheet. “Same.” Yep, same general conversation every Sunday, too.
“Dinner smells good.”
He glanced at her and smiled. “I made baked ziti.” Every weekend, he chose a childhood favorite to make for her, always hoping it would bond them somehow, or at least spur his mother to cook again, something she’d loved doing. So far, neither had happened. “While I finish broiling the garlic bread, will you set the table and put your flowers in a vase?”
“Sure.”
She did what he requested, while he slid the bread under the broiler to give it a quick bake to crisp the edges. Once that was done, they both made their own plates, she poured them each a glass of iced tea, and they sat down at the table together.
“How was work this past week?” he asked, grateful that her part-time job at a local nursery forced her to get out of the house and be around people. She took care of watering the plants and flowers, keeping them alive and making them look pretty until they were bought. The position was perfect for her.
“It was busy.” She pushed her pasta around on her plate before taking a small bite. “I saw Patty Henderson. She came into the nursery to buy some succulents. It’s been years since I’ve seen her.”
“Yes, it has been.”
Eric stared at his mother’s face, trying to figure out how she really felt about seeing a woman who’d once been one of her closest, dearest friends, before Trish’s death, but her expression revealed nothing. Within the first six months of his sister’s passing, his mother had closed herself off from everyone, to the point that even her best friends stopped calling and no longer came by the house because she refused to see or talk to them. Instead, she’d wallowed in her pain and grief alone, and those friendships had never recovered from being cut off.
“How is Patty?” he asked, to keep the conversation flowing.
“She looked well.” Absently, Ginny picked at her garlic bread, her appetite already gone. “She asked if I’d like to go to lunch sometime.”
Eric glanced up from his ziti, feeling a glimmer of hope and trying not to push too hard at this new and positive olive branch Patty had extended. “And what did you say?”
“That . . .I . . . ummm, wasn’t sure.” His mother’s eyes met his, and he felt punched in the gut by the loneliness he saw there, along with the desire to reconnect with a friend warring with the fear of getting close to anyone ever again. “After all these years, I’m afraid it would be so awkward.”
Initially, he knew it probably would be a little uncomfortable, until someone broke the ice and their old friendship kicked back into gear. “Mom, she wouldn’t have asked you to lunch if she genuinely didn’t want to see and talk to you outside of the nursery.”
Ginny fiddled with her fork. “She gave me her phone number, but I just don’t know.”
“You should think about it.” He reached out and gently squeezed her hand and was surprised when he felt her fingers tighten ever so slightly around his. “Patty was your best friend.”
His mother nodded, that sadness still lingering, and Eric wasn’t going to push the issue. Any decision his mother made had to be of her own volition.
He finished off his garlic bread and wiped his buttery fingers on his napkin. “So, I wanted to let you know that I won’t be by next Sunday with dinner. I’ll be out of town for the weekend.”
“Where are you going?” she asked, mildly curious.
“To Santa Barbara with a friend to visit her family for the Fourth of July weekend.”
A tiny spark of interest lit her eyes. “Her?”
The fact that his mother had jumped on the pronoun made him smile. “Yes. A woman. Her name is Evie and we’re just . . . friends.” He wasn’t sure how to label their non-relationship, and the whole fake boyfriend situation was too complicated to explain to his mother, who didn’t understand much about social media or apps or dating trends these days.
“And you’re meeting her family?” she asked, making Eric aware of just how much his mother had paid attention to this particular conversation. “Is it serious?”
Again, he kept things simple. “Yes, I’m meeting her family, and no, it’s not serious.”
“Oh,” she said quietly.
Was she disappointed? He couldn’t tell. They’d never discussed his love life, and he’d certainly never brought a woman home to meet his mom. For one thing, no female had ever made him want to introduce her to his mother, and secondly, he didn’t want his mom reading more into a relationship than the hookup situation it always was. Bottom line, his mother did not need to know about or meet the women he casually slept with.
Eric ate the last bite of ziti on his plate, and recognizing the signs that his mother was finished eating as well, he picked up their dishes and carried them to the sink. They fell into the same old routine . . . he loaded the plates and silverware into the dishwasher, and she put away the leftovers. They finished about the same time, and he turned around to face her while drying off his hands.
“Is there anything you need me to do around here before I go?” he asked like always, because things did occasionally break when it came to a house that was over thirty years old. He did his best to fix whatever he could when it came to keeping up his mother’s house, and what he couldn’t figure out, he hired someone else to do.
“No, everything is fine,” she replied, looking a little distracted.
He wondered if she was thinking about what he’d said about reaching out to Patty. God, he hoped so, but time would tell.
“If you need anything at all, just call me,” he said, always meaning it.
He wrapped her in a hug, and she tentatively touched her hands to his back to return the embrace, clinging to him a little closer than normal. She felt especially fragile and vulnerable tonight, as if she’d lost her way over the past thirteen years and didn’t know how to find her way back again.
“I’m always here for you, Mom,” he told her as they shared an emotional moment that made his throat feel tight. “I love you.”
She hugged him a little tighter before letting go and stepping back. “I love you, too, son.”
She’d said the words many times to him since Trish’s death, usually in response to him saying it first, but this time, as he looked into her eyes, they weren’t hazed over with the usual underlying grief and pain and depression. There was the smallest glimmer of the mother he
used to know, the one who’d smiled often and loved with her whole heart until her identity as a mother had been shattered, just as his as a brother had been.
He left his mother’s, and by the time he reached his own house, it was seven o’clock at night. Still early, and he really didn’t want to spend the rest of the evening by himself, rehashing his time with his mother and reading more into her actions than he should, because he’d been disappointed before.
What he needed was a distraction. Something, or someone, to take his thoughts off of his visit with his mother. He had at least a dozen contacts in his phone of willing females who’d be up for a booty call, but honestly, none of those women remotely appealed to him. No, the only person that filled his mind was Evie, who he hadn’t spoken to since Friday at her shop because his weekend had been extremely busy.
He decided he needed to rectify that situation. Kicking off his shoes, he made himself comfortable on the couch, called her number on his phone, and waited to hear her voice.
CHAPTER SIX
Evie took a big bite of one of the gooey, chocolatey brownies she’d made earlier to take to the salon for the Beautiful Day program tomorrow, intending to enjoy the treat while she read her book, just as her phone rang with a call. Mouth full of sticky, sweet goodness, she glanced at the screen to see who it was, hoping she could let it go to voicemail since she wasn’t in a position to talk at the moment.
Her stomach did a little happy dance at seeing Eric Miller’s name on the display, and since she hadn’t heard from him since Friday, she didn’t want to miss his call. She tried to swallow the thick brownie at the same time she answered the phone, which, in hindsight, probably wasn’t a great idea.
“Hey-roh?” she croaked around the chocolate cake in her throat.
There was a definite pause before Eric spoke. “Hi . . . is this Evie?”
The Boyfriend Experience Page 5