by Alexa Martin
Then time starts working again and they’re out of the room, Adelaide’s voice echoing up the stairs as she tells him what chair to sit in, and I’m staring at the empty doorway, wondering what in the hell just happened.
“What did I tell you?” Jude startles me out of my Hudson trance. “I told you he was the shit.”
I don’t say anything to her. I don’t have to. She knows she’s right. And I know I’m screwed. Because as much as I like Hudson in this moment, I also know nothing can happen.
I have one thing to focus on and until that’s done, not even The Addy Show can distract me.
Thanks a lot, Ben.
FOURTEEN
• • •
Jude
When I ran the podcast by Lauren, I thought it would take a lot more time and effort on my end since she was for sure not sold on the idea. But I underestimated Lauren’s desire to be the best at everything and Hudson’s desire for Lauren. Between the two of them, all I’ve had to do is sit on the couch, sip a martini—or two—talk with my best friend for a few hours, and watch as she gradually developed a massive crush on Hudson. That’s how I want to spend my days anyway.
Besides reaching out to a few fellow influencers who already owed me favors to promote our show, I’ve had nothing to do. And since I already had blocked out the last two weeks of August for the podcast, I decided to take over the one thing I knew I could do best: throw a banging-ass launch party!
“Where’s the bar going to go?” I ask Olivia Enis, the owner of Bougie Britches, the cutest boutique in Silver Lake, where our launch party is taking place.
She points to the empty space in the corner of the boutique. “Right over there. I didn’t want it too close to the dressing room or to the front door. This should balance out the high-traffic areas so it doesn’t look too crowded.”
“Perfect, and the jeans will be set up around the room?”
“Yes, all around.” She points to the empty tables her employees are starting to fill up. “I even reached out to a friend with a vintage store for some of their jeans to use.”
I figured since we are Mom Jeans and Martinis, both things needed to be well represented at the party. We’re even doing a little fashion show that will be the evolution of the mom jeans. It’s going to be great. The martinis are obvious. Not a chance in hell I would ever throw an event and not have alcoholic drink options.
Even though I hate to admit it, I wouldn’t have been able to throw this together without my mom’s magazine deal. It’s much easier to get a sponsor to donate last minute when there’s a publicity guarantee. You know, return on investment and all that jazz.
“This is going to be so great, Olivia. I really can’t thank you enough.” Olivia has been a pretty good friend for the last few years. Hers was one of the first brands that wasn’t just Pilates-focused to reach out to me. But even when I’m not getting paid, I still promote her stuff often, so she was more than happy to loan us Bougie Britches after hours. “Lauren is going to die, she’s never been the center of anything like this before. And Addy—her daughter—starts kindergarten this week. She’s been a fucking mess. Hopefully a martini will calm her down.”
Olivia starts to laugh. “I don’t think I’m about that mom life. This store might be the only thing I ever birth.”
“Same, girl. Hard fucking same.” We start walking to the door. I have to head home and change while Olivia puts the finishing touches on everything. “Living with Addy’s a blast, but mainly because Lauren does all the important shit. I just get to play dress-up and do cartwheels in the living room. Being a ‘fun aunt’ is my full capacity of dealing with a child.”
“Oh my god, that reminds me!” Olivia’s eyes go wide and she grabs my hand. “I have those matching necklaces you wanted in the back. Can you wait for just one second while I grab them? There’s no way I’ll remember them tonight.”
I glance at my phone. I should probably get going, but a few minutes won’t hurt anyone. “Not a problem, thank you for ordering them.”
I found these adorable necklaces that were almost like the friendship necklaces we used to buy at Claire’s in fourth grade, except way nicer. The ones I ordered are a brushed rose gold instead of glitter-coated plastic, and instead of a fractured heart, these necklaces have a very simple triangle attached to the chain. Alone, they’re pretty, simple, and something any adult would be happy wearing . . . even though—let’s be honest—I would still rock the shit out of a plastic glittered heart necklace.
But what really makes these necklaces so special are the names I had Olivia get engraved on the inside: Lauren, Adelaide, Jude. I found them right after I watched Boss Baby with Addy. Even though I know it’s just a kids’ movie, now I can’t see a triangle without thinking of the three of us joining together, creating the strongest shape in nature.
I really hope they’ll love them as much as I think they will. Well, at least Lauren. Addy has no standards. She legit got excited the other day because I let her keep the ribbon from a product I was sent.
Olivia waves off my thanks, the signature crystals on her long acrylic nails glittering under the recessed lighting. “You know I live for personalized gifts, and they turned out so cute, you’re gonna die.” She spins on one of her high heels and runs to the back room.
I make my way to one of the chairs that has been brought in for tonight, silently thanking the heavens I fell into the influencer niche where flip-flops, tennis shoes, and bare feet are expected.
I pull out my phone, using these spare minutes to respond to comments on my pictures and send a few messages to followers I’ve had for a while. I do it all the time, but people still seem surprised when I do. Like I’m some untouchable rainbow cloud shining down on them. Like, no, girl. I’m a hot-ass mess who almost had to move back in with her mom . . . but her mom couldn’t afford it. I’m lucky you let me grace your inbox! But I guess it just means my platforms are successfully portraying what I want them to see.
Part of the beauty of Instagram is that in pictures, there’s no difference between water and vodka.
I’m adding one more emoji than necessary when the front door squeaks open. I glance up from my phone, hoping it’s the bartender and I can give him the personalized swizzle sticks I absolutely didn’t need but still wanted. However it’s not the man who will supply me with drinks who walks through the door.
Nope, it’s the woman who makes me drink.
“Mom?” I drop my phone in my purse. “What are you doing here?”
I know my mom is trying her best to become relevant again, but Bougie Britches is so not her scene. There’s no way she would be caught dead wearing anything so easily accessible to the public.
Oh . . . did that sound rude?
Sorry.
What I was trying to say is that my mom is a fucking snob. Champagne taste with a Boone’s Farm budget.
“Jude! My love!” Her tone is airy and light, a stark contrast to the terse one she had last night when I told her I was busy today and couldn’t join her for a paparazzi-trailed Pilates class and dry lettuce lunch. “I was just walking in this adorable little neighborhood and saw you! It’s so cute here! Why don’t I come over here more?”
I’m assuming this is rhetorical, because again, fucking snob.
I’m trying to keep my shit together, but sometimes I feel like my mom is just a wrecking ball waiting to crash into me every time I’m starting to feel good about things.
And I felt good about tonight.
“Yeah, so cute. But, um, what are you doing here?”
She takes a seat on the velvet bench in front of what will be turned into our swag station. “I wanted to see the progress you and Lauren made. Can’t I just be proud of you girls?”
Even though she’s made it really hard for me to count on her the last few years, she was totally that asshole mom who showed up at school performan
ces hours early to make sure she was able to block off the best seats for her, my dad, and whoever else she had convinced to come cheer me on. She even started saving seats for the Turners once Lauren and I became friends. I think it might be the only good thing Mrs. Turner has to say about my family.
Plus, she loves Lauren as much as Lauren loves her. And, she did actually seem genuinely excited when I told her about the podcast. She even asked about it the other day when we went on one of our magazine-sponsored brunch dates. The fact that she remembered something that didn’t revolve around her felt like a small miracle. And she hasn’t asked for money since her phone bill. Maybe this is her trying?
“Of course you can.” I sit down next to her, feeling cautiously optimistic. “You know Mrs. Turner isn’t going to come. I think it will really mean a lot to Lauren if you’re here . . . and to me, too, obviously.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” She looks down and starts to fidget with the zipper of her designer bag. “My feelings were a little hurt that I had to hear about this from Eliza and not you.”
“I’m sorry, I should’ve told you. I guess I just got so wrapped up that I forgot. I’m really glad Eliza told you.”
Eliza is our handler at StarGazer. It’s not that I wanted to call her. As per my contract, I had to call her when I knew I was going to throw the launch. But—and as much as I hate to say it—having her backing me and confirming national press coverage has really taken this party to a level I wouldn’t have accomplished without her.
“You have no idea how relieved I am to hear you say that.” She turns to face me, a blush I haven’t seen in ages coloring her cheeks and making her look so much younger. “I have a tiny confession.”
Oh lord.
Here it comes. I wonder what the favor is this time or how much the loan that will never be paid back is for.
“I didn’t actually happen to just be in the neighborhood. I called StarGazer and they told me you’d been here for a while,” she says, and shocks the crap out of me.
“That’s your confession?”
“Yes.” She reaches for my hands. “Please don’t be mad. I promise I’m not keeping tabs on you. I just wanted to talk to you before tonight. I didn’t want to just turn up at your event and ruin it if you didn’t want me there. I know how—”
“Mom,” I say, cutting her off. Once Juliette Andrews starts to ramble, she doesn’t stop. A trait that very well may be hereditary. “It’s fine. I already figured that’s what happened and you weren’t randomly strutting around Silver Lake.”
Her shoulders fall in relief, and guilt that I didn’t even realize she seemed stressed courses through me.
“I did mean it when I said it’s cute here. I passed a coffee shop a few blocks back that looked wonderful. Maybe we can grab a drink there sometime soon?”
“Yeah, Mom,” I say. “I’d love that.”
And I actually mean it this time.
Maybe this plan of hers is working and my mom is slowly coming back to me.
“Okay!” She claps her hands together and her TV-perfect smile lights up her face. “I’m so excited for tonight. I’m going to run home and freshen up and then I’ll see you back here in a few hours. Seven o’clock, right?”
“Right,” I confirm.
She wraps her thin arms around me and pulls me in for a quick hug. “Proud of you, Ju-ju,” she whispers in my ear before walking out of the door and leaving me staring after her, speechless. Tears prick at the backs of my eyes, and for the first time in a long time with my mom, they’re happy tears.
I think the thing that makes our mother-daughter relationship so hard is that even when I want to hate my mom, I want to love her more.
Even when it hurts.
Maybe especially when it hurts.
I want my mom even if it feels like a knife to my chest. I’ll take the pain if it means one day getting to love my mom without the hurt lingering just below the surface.
This must be why they say love is like a drug. Knowing just how destructive it can be, but willing to risk everything for a momentary high when all you feel is good.
“Is it safe for me to come back out?” Olivia whisper-shouts from the back of her store.
“Yeah, of course, sorry about that. It was just my mom, I didn’t know she was coming.” See, the rambling? Definitely genetic. “Anyway, yeah. Please don’t hide in your place of business because of me.”
“It’s totally fine.” She hands me a bag with three beautifully wrapped boxes inside. “Trust me, I once walked in on three people having sex in the dressing room, this was nothing.”
“Three?” I debate whether or not to ask for more details but realize how much I still need to do. “I need details about this, when I take you out for drinks soon?”
“Definitely,” she says. “Now go! Get glam and let me take over things here. It’s going to be great.”
She’s right, this is going to be great and I can’t freaking wait.
FIFTEEN
• • •
Lauren
The last party I went to was Bryson Tripp’s fifth birthday. There was a bounce house, a face painter, and gluten-free carnival food. Adelaide had a blast and immediately crashed in the car afterward, so I was blessed with an hour of silence during the drive home. I didn’t think any party could top that glorious day.
Then I walked into Bougie Britches.
Jude’s been staring at me since she told me to open my eyes and finally revealed everything she’s kept so secret. She’s been watching me silently as I take in the fabulousness she’s orchestrated.
“You’re fucking killing me here! I don’t know what that face means. Do you love it? Do you hate it? Do you need a martini? What about a mini-manicure? Some hors d’oeuvres?”
Apparently she’s reached the end of her quiet rope.
“It’s freaking fantastic,” I say, putting her out of her misery and pulling her into a giant hug as I do. “It’s better than anything I could’ve even imagined.”
It really is.
I’d be lying if I said the perfectionist—or control freak, whatever—in me wasn’t dying to plan every little detail of anything that had to do with our podcast. But my mom always told me how important it is to know not only my strengths, but my weaknesses as well. And parties are not my thing. I’m more numbers and structure. Jude is all creative and living life to the fullest. It’s why we work so well together.
“Really?” She pulls out of my massive bear hug. “You’re not just saying that to make me feel good about myself?”
I don’t know if she’s asking because she’s really not sure or if she wants me to stroke her ego a little more, but either way, she deserves some ass pats for pulling this all together. “I’m not. This is honestly amazing and I have no idea how you managed to do this so quickly. You’re magic. Party-planning magic.”
Jude doesn’t try to mask how thrilled she is to hear this, and now that I know I have properly stroked her ego, she pulls me straight to where else? The bar.
“Two Juice Boxes, please!”
Her smile is brighter than I’ve seen it in a long time, and I know it’s from more than the vodka-brand-sponsored bar we’re standing at. And even though I lost my doubts about this podcast a long time ago, seeing her so happy and how much fun we’re having doing this would’ve totally convinced me. Plus, even though I talk a lot about motherhood on the podcast, I feel myself finding pieces of myself that I lost when I had Adelaide. It’s been a wonderful and unexpected upside for me to cling to whenever the embers of fear start to light back up. Because as glamorous as tonight is, in the back of my mind, I’m still reminded that the only reason I’m here is because I might lose my daughter.
Jude hands me the pink cocktail with a purple-sugared rim, preventing me from diving headfirst into the panic spiral I’m about to fall into.
&nb
sp; I lift the drink to my mouth, but she halts my hand before it makes it all the way to my lips.
“Picture first.” She plants one hand on her hip and lifts the drink close to her face, but not close enough that it blocks any of her smile. I try my best to mimic her, but whereas she looks carefree and natural in her pose, I’m pretty sure I look like a wide-eyed robot when the flashes start to go off. “Now take a sip,” she says without her smile slipping, the flashes still rapid-firing as she takes a small sip and then throws her head back like she’s laughing.
I try my best to keep up but make a mental note not to look up any of these pictures online.
“I can’t see anything anymore. My vision has gone white.” I say the words while trying to keep the smile on my face but am positive I’m only looking more nuts with every click.
“You’re a natural! You’re doing so good.” The lie slips effortlessly out of Jude’s pink-painted lips.
This is just one more benefit of hanging out with adults. Adelaide is very honest. Which is wonderful . . . and almost brutal. Kids are fucking mean.
Almost as mean as vindictive ex-almost-husbands . . .
Once the photographers are satisfied with the pictures, they nod their thanks before finding other things to photograph as people start rolling through the door. Jude finally ditches the baby sip she was taking for the camera and takes the deep gulp she’s wanted. “Oh my god. It’s so good.” She grabs my martini glass–holding hand and lifts it to my lips. “Isn’t it so good?”
I take a bigger sip than intended thanks to Jude’s “help” and feel my eyes go wide. “It really is good!”
Martinis aren’t usually my favorite. They’re always too strong and I don’t love the taste of alcohol. This one is almost like juice. Ha. Now I get why they called it Juice Box. But now that I know how fast I could down these babies, I decide this will be my first and last of the night.
I haven’t been drunk in years.