Mom Jeans and Other Mistakes

by Alexa Martin

  “Do you even have to ask?” Spencer asks the question she most definitely doesn’t need to ask.

  “How many shots is that?” Lauren looks between me and Spencer. I know she’s trying her hardest to not mother us—or, more specifically, me—but I can hear the concern in her voice that she’s attempting to keep light. “I’m tipsy after one drink!”

  “Jude and I have a rule when we go out at night,” Spencer says. “We don’t count the three c’s.”

  Lauren’s eyebrows furrow together as she looks between me and Spencer. “The three c’s?”

  “Calories, carbs, and cocktails,” I explain.

  “Ah. Okay, got it.” She takes a small sip of her drink. “If I don’t count my drinks, I’ll end up on the floor, but I never count carbs or calories, so I’m with you on those.”

  Spencer whips her head to Lauren so fast, her long ponytail slaps the person walking by our table. “You mean to tell me you have a kid, eat carbs, don’t monitor your calories, and you still look like that?”

  “Yup,” I answer for Lauren, who looks like she can’t decide if she’s embarrassed or flattered. “It’s bullshit. She also has no skin-care routine and has not a line on her face.”

  “What can I say?” Lauren tries to hide her smirk behind her glass. “Black don’t crack. This melanin keeps my skin looking amazing.”

  “Then cheers to fucking melanin!” Spencer says so loud, and without any context, the tables around us all turn to stare.

  We ignore all of them, happily encased in our tipsy little bubble. I unfold the shot glass and pour oversized ones for me and Spencer.

  “Are you sure you don’t want one?” I ask Lauren, waving the vodka in front of her face. “This is top-of-the-line, locally distilled vodka and it’s delicious.”

  Lauren’s nose crinkles just like Addy’s does when she tries to convince her that zucchini is good. “No thanks, I’m good.”

  I shrug my shoulders. Her loss is my win. More for me.

  I take the shot and screw the glass into the side of the flask, tucking it neatly back into my stocking when I see the waiter approaching with our drinks.

  “We’re succeeding on not counting drinks”—well, Spencer and I are at least—“but we need some carbs and calories to ignore. Watch my drink and I’ll go grab some stuff from inside.”

  When Spencer was showing us to our seats, I noticed different food stations set up inside. And at the rate I’m drinking, I’m going to need some food to help sustain me.

  “Do you want me to come with?” Lauren asks, and I don’t know if it’s because she wants to come or if she’s just anxious about being left alone with Spencer. As friendly as Lauren is, she struggles with small talk.

  I would normally put her out of her misery and tell her to come with me, but then I think about how I sat with those Remington moms and decide not to. “I’m good, you two chat. I’ll be quick.”

  Lucky for Lauren, Spencer’s the shit.

  “Oh! While she’s gone, can you show me pictures of your daughter? Jude’s always talking about her and I’d love to put a face to these stories.”

  Lauren’s eyes light up—moms love showing pictures of their kids, that’s not a myth—as she pulls out her phone.

  I push my chair out and stand up, maybe a little too quickly, because those last vodka shots seem to have gone straight to my head. I hold on to the top of my chair for a second, waiting for the world to stop spinning. I move on jelly legs, weaving my way through the crowd, laughing out loud at all the ridiculous sweaters around me until I make my way inside and the noise level multiplies.

  I look around, blinking my eyes shut to clear my vision so I can find the food. Thankfully, booze doesn’t affect my smell like it does my vision, and I close in on the pasta station in no time.

  I fill up my plate with a little bit of every pasta they offer, justifying it by repeating my three c’s mantra, but also remembering that I’ll share with Spencer and Lauren. Maybe. I’m scooping an extra spoonful of the lobster mac and cheese when I hear a voice that has haunted my nightmares for the last year. I squeeze my eyes shut again, hoping it’s just the vodka playing tricks on me, but when I open them and turn around, I see him.

  Asher Thompson.

  The last time I saw him was the day before I discovered he’d fucked me over and I was broke. He took off and I was robbed of my opportunity to confront him. I’ve dreamt of this moment. I’ve visualized exactly what I’d say to him and how I’d make him grovel at my feet, begging for forgiveness and admitting to everything he’s done. But when I see Meadow fucking Blake curled into his side, I forget all of it and my vision goes red.

  If I was sober, maybe I’d think twice about marching over to him, but I’m not. And fuck that . . . fuck him.

  “Asher fucking Thompson.” I elbow my way through the circle of people fawning all over him, not knowing what a giant con artist he is. But they’ll learn tonight. “Long time no fucking see.”

  His spine straightens and fear flashes behind his eyes. Like a fucking serial killer, seeing that fear spurs me on, it thrills me. You should be fucking afraid, I think to myself.

  “Jude. Wow, long time no see.”

  “Yeah, so long!” I make my smile as big as I can, trying to keep my tone light and airy. “But I guess after you steal tens of thousands of dollars from someone, you probably tend to avoid them.”

  All conversations around us stop as eyes focus in on us. Which is exactly what I wanted.

  Asher coughs out a laugh, his tan skin filling with color. “What? Steal your money? Come on, Jude, that’s crazy.”

  “What’s crazy is that I’m sure you’ve done it before and plan on doing it again.” I inch closer to him until my plate knocks into his arm. “Telling people you’re going to be partners, help support their dreams, and then bam! You’re gone and so is the money. You know what—”

  “How much have you had to drink tonight?” Meadow’s stupid baby voice cuts me off. She pulls out of Asher’s arm and takes a step too close to me. “You do know you can be an influencer without being under the influence, right?”

  I put my hand in her face, pushing her out of my space. “Shut the fuck up, Meadow, and go run off and profit off some kids who don’t know who the fuck you are.”

  “I can’t believe you’re still telling people this story about the money, Jude. It’s sad, honestly,” Asher says, and there are a few chuckles around us. I was so busy focusing on Meadow that I didn’t realize I just gave Asher the time he needed to compose himself. “You can’t run a business with a drunk. I didn’t take your money, you lost it because you couldn’t keep yourself together long enough to build it.”

  The noise around me fades, and all I can hear is the pounding of my pulse.

  “Are you fucking kidding me!” I scream, the anger that’s been building around him and my mom and this stupid fucking life of mine that just. Won’t. Let. Up. boils to a tipping point. “Fifty thousand dollars, Asher! Fifty! And you took it all almost as soon as the ink dried on the contract!”

  “Oh, honey.” Meadow’s stupid voice manages to get even higher. “You should just stop. This is sad.”

  “Fuck you! You’re a fucking hack! That’s not even your fucking voice! Just shut the hell up!” Before I even know what’s happening, my plate covered in pasta is empty and all of the pasta is dripping down Meadow’s head. “And you!” I turn to Asher, planting both of my hands into his chest, shoving him back. “You.” Shove. “Stole.” Shove. “My money!” I don’t shove him this time. I pull my arm back and aim it straight for his nose.

  Pain explodes into my fist, reverberating all the way up my arm and into my shoulder as the people around us seem to shake out of whatever trance they were in.

  “You crazy fucking bitch!” Asher cups his nose with both hands, moaning and bending over as blood leaks through his
fingers. “You punched me!”

  “And I’ll do it again!” I start to move toward him, but arms wrap around me, stopping me from making it to him. I scratch at the arms, twisting my body around trying to get free, trying to get to fucking Asher. “Let me go!”

  “Jesus, Jude! Stop!” Lauren’s voice manages to break through the rage haze. “Let’s go! You have to get out of here.”

  My body goes slack and I look at the chaos around me. Meadow is crying, red sauce and cheese dripping down her face. Asher is on his knees as people rush to him, carrying towels and ice. And cameras.

  Cameras everywhere.

  Focused on me.

  “Shit,” I whisper. My sinuses start to burn along with the rising embarrassment that all of this pandemonium is because of me.

  I don’t have time to think much longer because Spencer is at my other side. They drag me through the restaurant and shove me into the elevator without missing a beat.

  “What the hell was that!” Lauren shouts. She moves across the tight space, forcing me into the corner with a look on her face like I’ve never seen before. If I could die from a look, this would kill me. “Are you out of your mind?”

  I ignore her. Not because I want to, but because I don’t even know how to answer that question.

  Because if I’m honest with myself, I’ve been out of my mind for a long fucking time and I have no idea how to get it back.

  THIRTY

  • • •

  Jude

  Regret and mortification adds an entirely new element to hangovers, and I do not recommend it.

  I mean, sure, I’ve done stupid shit while drunk before. I’ve accidentally flashed my lady bits. I’ve hooked up with people whose integrity was questionable at the very best. I’ve def called exes and cried to them.

  What I haven’t done is assault two people in front of a room full of witnesses. To that point, I hadn’t assaulted anyone with or without witnesses period.

  That is, I hadn’t . . . until last night.

  It takes me a while to figure out the pounding I’m hearing isn’t coming from my head but my door. And the only reason I’m able to make that distinction is because I hear my mom’s voice coming from the other end of my room.

  “Fuck.” I yank my pillow from beneath my head and smother it over my face.

  “Jude Elizabeth Andrews, open this door right now!” Her voice grows more shrill with each word, and as much as I want to ignore her, I put Lauren through too much last night to make her listen to my mom’s crazy rants so early in the morning.

  Begrudgingly, I toss my pillow on the floor, peeling my comforter off me, and trying not to cringe when I see I’m still wearing my outfit from last night. My muscles feel like they’re about to quit on me as they get me out of bed, and the throbbing in my head amplifies by a million. My stomach riots, flipping and turning so much that I have to stop and lean forward, resting my forehead against the cool, beige-painted wall beside my bed. Once I’m sure I’m not going to throw up all over my plush white rug, I make my way to the door.

  “. . . so help me god, I know how to pick a lock!” She’s still ranting and raving in the hallway. Thank god Addy isn’t here. Nothing and nobody gets in the way of Juliette Andrews saying what she wants to say.

  My hand hovers over the doorknob as I contemplate letting her in again, when her rant turns to screeching.

  “Now, Jude!”

  I twist the lock and pull the door open, managing to frown at her even though it just makes my head hurt even more.

  “Jesus Christ, Mom.” My mouth is dry, my throat drier, and my voice is so hoarse it’s almost unrecognizable to my own ears. “You do know I’m not the only person who lives here, right?”

  She shoulders her way into my room, tossing her purse on my bed before turning to me and snatching off her sunglasses to level me with a glare that holds so much contempt, my stomach starts to turn again. “Oh, so you are capable of thinking of someone besides yourself.”

  I don’t know if it’s because I’m still drunk—which is a high possibility—or if it’s my mom’s words, but my vision blurs. My fingers tighten on the brass doorknob as I resist the urge to slam the door shut.

  “All I do is think of other people,” I mumble beneath my breath. Mere seconds around my mom and I’m already reverting to fourteen-year-old Jude.

  “What was that?” She swings around and narrows her furious stare on me. If I really was fourteen, I would be a nervous wreck, but thankfully, I’m twenty-eight and my mom has screwed me over so badly these last few years that her anger no longer holds the higher ground.

  “Nothing.” I walk past her, not giving her the satisfaction of a reaction, and fall back onto my bed. “So to what do I owe the pleasure of seeing you first thing in the morning?”

  “Don’t play that game with me, Jude.” I didn’t know it was possible with the amount of fillers she must’ve had done since she was recast on Hollywood Housewives, but her forehead manages to crease as she points an angry finger my way. “All you had to do was hold your shit together in public. That’s all. And you couldn’t even do that. You ruined everything!”

  Her voice has an edge of panic I’m not sure I’ve ever heard from her before. And as many times as I’ve told myself that her mental state is no longer my responsibility, hearing it causes my stomach to turn and my heart to race.

  I sit up slowly, really taking her in for the first time. The dark circles beneath her eyes make her look ages older than her fifty-three years, and her size 0 jeans are loose on her already too thin legs. She looks horrible, and guilt infiltrates my defenses.

  “What’s going on?”

  I know the answer. I’ve known since Eliza called me last month. But now it’s staring me in the face and I can’t ignore it any longer.

  “The house”—her delicate voice breaks in the middle of the word—“I’m going to lose my house.”

  Hurt flares at the way she phrases it. Not our house, her house.

  And I guess that’s right. Who am I to say? I left her. Moved in with Lauren and practically abandoned her when her problems became too much for me to bear. Why should I get to claim ownership over something I never worked to have?

  Except . . . that’s where my memories live. Even if I’ve let her down—again—it’s still where our family grew, where I last saw my dad, where I last was happy. That was my home.

  And now it’s going away too.

  Like every single thing that means something to me.

  I drop my eyes to the red spot on my carpet from when I let Addy sneak juice in my room. “I know.” My voice is barely a whisper, like the shame of not doing more to help my mom is blocking my windpipe. “Eliza called and told me.”

  The sharp inhale should’ve pulled my attention away from the stupid spot I gave up on cleaning. But instead, it just makes me stare harder. No matter how hard I scrubbed and worked at the stain, it didn’t matter. The mess is adhered to the fabric. It’s one. There is no separating it. Even if it fades, it will still be there . . . impossible to erase.

  Just like my life.

  My mom’s feet, covered in her designer heels, step into my vision, stopping on top of the stain. Hiding it . . . or maybe sprouting from it?

  “You knew?” It doesn’t matter that her voice is quiet or that her hand wraps gently around my hand, the anger and hurt in her tone and touch are practically ricocheting off the walls.

  I squeeze my eyes shut before taking a deep breath and letting it all out. “Yeah.” I finally gather enough courage to look at her, and regret it immediately. Because I know, until the day that I die, I will never forget the look on her face. “I’m so sorry, Mom. It’s just that—”

  I don’t even get to finish my sentence before she drops my hand like it was liable to ignite into flames, and scurries to the other side of the room. “You’re sorry
?”

  My feet have a mind of their own and they move to follow her.

  “I’m so sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen.” I keep inching toward her, ignoring the way she’s shaking her head, and trying to not let her falling tears fucking ruin me. I reach for her, clutching her limp hands in mine, needing her to understand that I didn’t want to hurt her. Needing her to feel how sorry I am. “I’ve just been so stressed and overwhelmed. I couldn’t handle it. I didn’t know how to deal with losing the house too. And you’re not blameless in this either. How could you ask them to publish pictures of Addy when that was my one request in this deal?”

  For a split second, I think I see understanding or maybe even remorse in her bright blue eyes, but it’s gone so fast, I must’ve imagined it.

  She rips her hands out of mine and swipes at her tearstained cheeks. “Oh, stop it, Jude! Of course you’re overreacting to that! Lauren doesn’t care about Addy having her picture taken. You just needed to feel in control of my deal. I didn’t realize you would be so vindictive when you found out!” She inches closer to me, forcing me to retreat in my own room. “And what do you even have to be stressed over? Is taking pictures on Instagram becoming too taxing? Is it too hard to perform the job I literally laid in your lap? I got you the following, I got you the media, I got you the contracts after you made a terrible business decision over a man. Your dad would’ve been so disappointed over that one.” She shakes her head, rolling her eyes, while laughing a humorless laugh like she didn’t just slice my heart open. “All you had to do was not be a fucking disaster in public, Jude! That’s it! I had this all worked out. I was going to keep the house, but then you go and blow the one thing I’m asking of you. And poof!” She lifts her hands in front of my face, and even though she’s never hit me before, I can’t conceal the way I flinch. “It’s all gone. The contracts. The sponsors. All gone. Because you can’t do the smallest thing to help me when I’m finally almost put back together.”

  All of the anger I’ve been holding on to abandons me, and all I’m left with is sorrow. “I tried to help. I really did.”