by Alexa Martin
I don’t know how it’s possible for my heart to pound in my chest as it’s shattering into millions of pieces, but it’s happening.
“Bullshit,” she hisses. She jabs a polished fingernail into my chest, and her beautiful face screws up so tight, it’s almost unrecognizable. “If I was Lauren, you would’ve helped. But me, your mom? You never want to do anything for me, and I raised you.”
“That’s not true—” I don’t know if I’m trying to defend myself or what, but it doesn’t matter, because she doesn’t let me finish.
“It is true! This whole thing is because you were mad at a picture of her daughter. But you know what? I don’t even care anymore.” She pulls her shoulders back, and the woman I idolized on her soap opera set appears before me. “You made it clear since your father died, I’m just a burden to you. Lucky for you, you don’t have to worry about me bothering you now. As far as I’m concerned, you’re no longer my daughter, and I hope you’re happy with that.”
“What?”
“You heard me.” She grabs her bag off my bed. “I did everything for you, and now that I need you, you do this? You hate me so much, you’d let this happen to me? Well, message received. I don’t need you either.”
My mouth opens and closes, but no words come out.
She’s done things like this in the past, but it feels different this time. Maybe because this time it really feels like it’s all my fault.
I ruined everything in my life and then I did the same thing to her.
I’m like a fucking wrecking ball.
She doesn’t wait for me to gain my composure.
She doesn’t stop and turn when I finally manage to call her name through my tear-clogged throat.
She doesn’t do anything except walk away.
It isn’t until I hear her voice, as sweet and kind as if nothing just happened, saying goodbye to Lauren that it really hits me.
I’m all alone.
Always, always alone.
I move to close my door when that damn stain catches my eye again.
It has to go. There has to be some way I can fucking get rid of it. It can’t just sit there forever.
My hangover makes its appearance known when my stomach turns and flips as I sprint down the stairs to find the stain remover beneath the kitchen sink. I ignore the way Lauren watches me from her spot on the couch as I sweep all of the other cleaners out of my way until I finally see the blue bottle I’m looking for.
I don’t even know if my feet touch the ground as I skip the stairs and run to my room. I shove the door against the back wall so hard that not even the doorstop can gentle it. The frames on my dresser tumble over and I drop to my knees, dousing the red spot with the gel, flipping the bottle over, and scrubbing the carpet until my arms ache.
“Jude? Are you okay?” Lauren startles me out of my cleaning haze. Her voice is gentle, like it is when she talks to Addy when she’s feeling sad. The way a mother should talk to her daughter.
“Water.” I prop myself up on my knees and take in the now pink spot beneath the foaming gel cleaner. “I think I need water now.”
She moves slowly across my room until she’s on her knees beside me. She pulls the bottle out of my hands and moves it so it’s out of reach. “Maybe we should forget about the stain for a second.”
“No! I can’t! I can’t just let this stain fester in the fucking carpet!” I push up so that I’m standing. “So what? So Addy has one fucking accident and then it’s just there for fucking ever? Every time she comes into my room? She has to see the reminder of the one time she messed up? No. That’s not going to happen. It has to go. I won’t let Addy live with that.”
And then it clicks and I know exactly how to get rid of it.
I take off back through my door and down the stairs. I go straight to the kitchen, eyeing the knife block holding all of our knives. I know exactly which one I need. I pull the small but extremely sharp knife out of its allotted slot and run back to my room, waving the knife around like a knight with a sword.
Lauren’s eyes double in size when she sees me walk in with the knife, but I’m too focused to notice.
“What are you doing?” The hysteria in her voice doesn’t register.
Nothing registers.
Nothing matters except getting rid of that stupid fucking stain.
I fall back to the floor, ignoring Lauren’s protests as I raise my fist with the knife in it and slam it into the carpet. I saw the knife around the stain, cutting and cutting until the last thread is broken and jagged edges are ripped free.
“There!” I hold up the stained carpet, letting it dangle between my thumb and my index finger. “I fucking got it!”
“Jude . . .” Lauren’s big brown eyes are watching me . . . not looking at all at the carpet I just ripped up.
“No, look, Lauren! I got it!” I shove it in her face. “Addy will never have to see it again. And she’ll know that I’ll never let her mistakes haunt her. Not ever. I’ll always be there for her. No matter what.”
“Jude.” Lauren takes two steps toward me and closes the distance between us. She leans in and gently peels my fingers off the knife before taking the carpet patch from me. “She already knows that.”
“No matter what,” I say, repeating myself, but the words don’t come as easily this time.
My breathing starts to slow and awareness creeps back in. Lauren staring at me, concern and fear written across her stunning face. Right next to her, the sad, pathetic piece of fucking carpet is lying next to the knife I probably ruined.
I look away from her and find the spot where the stain used to be. My hand grazes the now empty hole in the middle of my floor. The hole that’s a million times more noticeable than the red stain.
“I made it worse,” I whisper, my voice breaking.
“What?” Lauren leans in to hear me.
“I made it worse.” I look up, saying it a little louder this time. “I always make it worse.”
Like a tidal wave, all the feeling comes back in my body. The lightness I was feeling moments ago flying through the house disappears, and a heaviness like I’ve never felt before takes over. My arms feel like they weigh a thousand pounds, my legs feel like they’re covered in concrete, and my chest aches like I’ve been punched. My lungs feel as if I’ve been drowning for the last twenty-eight years and I just got my first taste of air.
And it hurts.
It fucking kills.
The sob that comes from the back of my throat feels like it’s being torn from the very bottom of my soul. It feels like it’s ripping me in half.
Then Lauren’s arms are wrapped around me so tight that I can barely breathe. She’s whispering words I don’t even pretend to comprehend and providing comfort I can’t accept.
Because I’ll ruin this too. I’ll push Lauren away. I’ll lose Addy.
That’s what I do. I fuck up everything.
And I’ll be alone.
Always, always alone.
THIRTY-ONE
• • •
Lauren
There are certain things that once they happen, you know they’re going to stick with you until you take your final breath. Feelings and memories that you’ll hold on to forever.
I’ve had a few of them.
Finding out I was pregnant. Holding Adelaide for the very first time after a horrendous pregnancy and even worse delivery. I still remember the way she smelled and the feel of her baby skin . . . the way my heart exploded as I was counting her perfect, tiny fingers and they formed a fist around my finger. The moment Ben told me he’d been unfaithful and we were over.
Good, bad, and beautiful, they’re all ingrained in my mind.
And now, etched right next to them is the guttural, heart-wrenching sound that came from Jude as she collapsed into my arms and cried for hours after he
r mom came over.
That sound. It didn’t even seem human. It shouldn’t be human. No one person should have that much pain welled up inside of them.
And it haunts me.
I hear it when I’m in the shower, when I’m driving. Any quiet moment I have is punctuated by the echoes of her sobs. I feel the weight of her body when she fell into me, the way her body racked with so much pain that I felt the vibrations against my skin. And the guilt of knowing how long she must’ve been hiding the burdens she’s been buried under, the burdens that have been crushing her beautiful spirit, threatens to choke me.
Because even after all of that, even after falling apart in my arms, it was like a switch flipped at the end and she pretended nothing happened at all. “Fuck.” She swiped those tears off her face and let out the weakest laugh I’ve ever heard before pushing out of my arms. “I am so sorry. It was not that serious. Hangovers and moms, man. Not a good combination.”
And when I tried to stop her, talk to her, she said she had to take a shower, and for the two weeks since, she’s been avoiding me.
“Yo. Lauren.” Hudson squeezes my knee. “You good?”
“Yeah, sorry.” I shake my head, trying to rid it of the thoughts of Jude for long enough to at least hold a conversation with Hudson. “What were you saying?”
His eyes go soft and he links his fingers through mine. “You still haven’t talked to Jude?”
I pull my lips between my teeth and fight away the tears that have been looming behind my eyes for the last two weeks. I can’t even answer his question because I know I won’t be able to stop them from falling, so I just shake my head instead.
“She’ll come around.” He says it like it’s fact, and I’ve never wanted to believe something so much in my entire life.
“I hope so.” I tuck my ankles beneath me and lean into Hudson, bringing the glass of wine to my lips and enjoying the soft light of the Christmas tree for a little bit longer, knowing it has to come down.
I look at the pile of toys pushed into the corner of the living room. All are unwrapped, a few are still in boxes, and the dollhouse from Santa is standing tall against the wall. Suffice it to say, Adelaide is an extremely happy and entertained child right now.
Between me, Ben and Stephanie, and her grandparents, it’s almost disgusting how much stuff she got. Next year, I’m going the experience route over presents. Maybe we’ll drive to the mountains, rent a cabin, and go skiing. Anything other than the endless amount of crap she’ll no doubt tire of by February.
“Hudsie!” Adelaide, in a voice that hasn’t quieted, shouts from her room. “Can you help me? I wanna make a show with my stuffed animals!”
When Hudson came over tonight, he held a sparkly wrapped present in his hand. The only thing better than a Christmas gift is one at the end of the day when you think the excitement is over. Adelaide’s little eyes lit up, and that was before she tore the paper off and saw the camera he got her.
It was too much. And it was perfect.
A perfect, wordless reminder that Hudson isn’t like any man I’ve ever known. He isn’t just dealing with being around Adelaide to get to me, he cares about her just as much as he cares about me. And this camera was a promise that he’s going to encourage her to explore her creativity just like he’s done for me.
He presses his lips against my forehead, the corners of his mouth turning up as he pulls away and levels me with a stare. “Just so you know, your daughter’s the shit and we’re about to go make the dopest video ever. I even downloaded new sound clips for her to use before I came over.”
I never thought I’d fall for a guy who uses the word dope so frequently, but here we are. And I’m falling hard.
I fake a cringe. “Oh god, I’m going to have to create backdrops, aren’t I?”
“You haven’t already? What a slacker.” He stands up, bending down and touching his mouth to mine once more before turning and taking the steps two at a time, calling, “Here I come, Adikins! Let’s get this show on the road!”
Adelaide’s giggles at his nickname for her float through the house, and the happiness that fills my chest is so wonderful and pure, it makes the guilt of knowing how much pain my best friend is in bubble right back to the top.
I check my phone again, seeing if she’s sent another text or anything. Even though I love the time spent alone(ish) on the couch with Hudson, we were supposed to record a new holiday-themed podcast tonight. I got her eggnog and saved some of my mom’s famous cheesecake for her. She said she’d be here an hour ago. I type out a quick message asking if she’s okay or if she wants to reschedule, and then, even though I don’t want to, I open Instagram.
I still hate social media, and I find I hate it even more every time I mindlessly drift to the app and scroll endlessly. So I try to avoid it, but since Jude is avoiding me, it’s really the only peek I have into her life.
In true Jude fashion, she didn’t actually address the fallout that happened with her sponsors after her . . . encounter with Asher and Meadow. Just a few quotes posted on her feed where she vaguely mentions only being able to be used and abused so many times before fighting back. And because social media is social media, that seemed good enough for her loyal followers. She actually gained followers after it all happened. I guess what they say is true: all press is good press.
I search her username and tap her profile picture, catching up on the stories she entertains her thousands of followers with. I watch the fifteen-second clips pass by, seeing her gorgeous smile filling the screen and hearing contagious laughter as she dances around, busting out Pilates poses on sidewalks. She sits in an empty Pilates studio, sipping out of her water bottle, answering the “ask me anything” questions her followers have sent her. She jokes and preaches authenticity, self-love, and acceptance.
And it’s all so fake that it makes my eyes hurt.
Sometimes I forget that Jude’s first love was acting. She was so, so good. The lead in all of our plays. She even got a starring role her freshman year, a first in our school’s history. I guess she’s so good at this influencer gig that it was easy for me to think this is what she wanted to do, and not just a road she happened down.
But seeing the emptiness behind her eyes as she showcases her straight, perfectly white teeth (that I, too, can have for fifty percent off if I swipe up and use her code) reminds me how talented she is. She’s used filters and hidden behind a character she created so well that I didn’t even notice.
I’m falling down the rabbit hole (that’s what Jude calls it), scrolling down to pictures from years ago, reading the witty captions that made Jude the relatable best friend every person on Instagram wants to have, when I hear the front door open.
Jude strides through like she’s not over an hour late and hasn’t been avoiding me for the last two weeks . . . or, really looking at it, the last two years.
“Oh my god.” She drops her purse on the floor and kicks off her shoes before running across the room and jumping onto the couch next to me. “You aren’t going to fucking believe who I talked to today!”
I don’t actually care who she talked to. Unless it’s her therapist, who she stopped seeing weeks ago for reasons she—not shockingly—won’t disclose to me. But this is the first time I’ve seen her smiling without shadows behind her eyes, and I’m so relieved to see it that I’ll gladly talk about whatever it is that put it there.
“You’re right, I’ll never guess,” I tell her. “So just tell me.”
“Okay, are you ready?” She’s bouncing up and down, so giddy that I can’t help but smile and bounce along with her. “I don’t think you’re ready.”
“Jude!” I whine. The anticipation over something I didn’t even care about two minutes ago is so strong that I might burst if she doesn’t hurry up and tell me.
And this right here? This is her influence. Right here in front of me, no ma
tter how worried I am about her, the second she aims her energy at me, I’m putty in her hands.
“Nicola fucking Roberts!” She screeches the name in my face, and my body turns to stone, but she keeps talking. “She reached out to me because she’s been listening to our podcast and loves you. She loves how open and honest you are about motherhood, but how much fun you seem to have being a mom. She signed up for the emails and fell even further in love with you.”
“You’re freaking lying.” I breathe out the words, not sure Jude can hear over the squealing she’s still doing. “She reached out on Christmas?”
This is literally the best gift ever.
“Yes, on Christmas. Holidays are the most active days for influencers. Everyone is at home, staring at their phones and wishing they weren’t.” She rolls her eyes like that wasn’t a completely reasonable question. “I’d never fucking lie about this! And that’s not even everything!” Jude yanks me closer before screaming in my face. “She wants you to do a panel with her!”
I was seventeen when I found out I was accepted into my parents’ alma mater. I’d been working my entire life to get into Stanford, and opening that thick envelope to the welcome package, seeing pride evident on my mom’s stern face, I finally felt like I’d accomplished something meaningful. Medical school had been even more exciting.
Then I dropped out, and besides Adelaide, I haven’t felt pride like that since.
Until this very moment.
Nicola Roberts isn’t just a mommy influencer. She’s the mommy influencer. She has her own cookbook, a line of merchandise you can buy from practically any big-box retailer. She’s in the midst of getting her own talk show, but while it’s in development, she has a YouTube channel that garners millions of views. Features on her website don’t just boost popularity, they launch careers. She’s like Oprah. Her influence doesn’t have limits.
And for some crazy reason, Jude is telling me she wants me on a panel with her.