I go to my room, strip, and climb into bed, but it’s a long time before I fall asleep.
I think of the heavy, almost sad hunch of Paxton’s shoulders.
The brooding darkness in his eyes.
I want to take it away, but I can’t. I don’t know how. He’s not mine—it’s not my place or my nature.
I’m quiet on the ride to the airport—Liam tries to engage me in conversation several times, but I’m not feeling it, and he eventually gives up.
The dress fitting was quick and painless. There was a rack of incredible white bridal gowns, each by a high-end designer. I tried on a dozen, and Julie and I settled on the one that looked best—simple, a sleeveless sweetheart neckline; it’s a mermaid style, and the plunging neckline is truly daring, and would be well-nigh immodest if it weren’t for the gauzy lace. As is, I don’t think my breasts have ever been pushed up so high, nor quite so eye-poppingly prominent. I protested this at first, but Julie overrode me. Let what God gave me shine out, she said. It’s just enough of too much to be absolutely perfect. It also fits nearly perfectly, just needing some adjustment in the hips and bust, because I’m so ridiculously curved in both areas.
After some measurements, the dress is taken away to be altered by a team of professionals hired specifically by Camilla for this—no in-house alterations here, thank you very much.
I hope the sarcastic eye roll is evident, because it’s just so over the top.
Once the fitting is done, Liam whisks me off to the airport—a pleasant surprise is waiting for me: a bottle of chilled white wine, courtesy of Paxton, and a packed bag, as the fitting had been early this morning and I hadn’t had time to pack.
He even made sure to include two of the best purses in my new collection, as well some of the jewelry which had, at some point, appeared in a glass box in my room—two-carat diamond solitaire earrings in platinum with a matching three-carat pendant necklace, four-carat diamond tennis bracelets, a sapphire pendant necklace, several more pairs of earrings ranging from simple small diamonds to elaborate tear-drop pieces. When I asked Paxton how much it had all cost, he’d just winked at me and told me not to worry about it.
Obviously, it’s all real, and the potential value of it all makes me nauseous.
Thirty thousand feet up, sipping wine and watching a rom-com on the TV screen…and my phone rings.
“Hello?” I answer.
“Miss Makayla Poe?” a smooth female voice asks.
“Yes.”
“This is Jennifer from Harborview Nursing Home. How are you this morning?”
Panic, immediate and throttling. “Is it Mom? Did something happen?”
“No, god, I’m sorry, I should have led with that—no, Miss Poe, your mother is doing very well. No, I’m actually calling because we’ve been going through accounts, and it seems you’re somewhat behind. You’ve always been very prompt, and as a token of appreciation we’re waiving the late fees, but we do need you to get current as soon as possible.”
I swallow hard—before I left with Paxton, I’d given them every dollar I had except for the $250 emergency cash in my wallet. I’d hoped the amount would have covered me for longer than this, but apparently I had miscalculated.
“Okay, um.” I’m already on a sliding scale based on my obviously dire financial situation, and I know they’re doing me a huge favor by even giving me this notice, but the amount in question is still way outside my ability to pay, now that I’ve fallen behind. “Okay. I’ll handle it. Thank you for the notice.”
“You’re welcome and thank you again.”
I end the call and carefully set the device aside—it’s the first cell phone I’ve ever had, the newest sleekest handset, and I’m paranoid about dropping it. I barely know how to use it.
Sigh.
Now what do I do? I have no money. I’m not working. I have nothing of my own to sell. I could ask Paxton to take care of it, but knowing him, he’d go buy the whole nursing home. I can’t go to Paxton. I can’t be any more reliant on him than I already am. I take care of Mom, because she took care of me. It’s my problem. I just don’t know how to fix it.
God, I’m so stupid. I should never have done this. Why did I think it was a good idea? Quit my jobs, leave my mom, marry a stranger…all in some vague hope of someday somehow being able to make things easier. What did I think I was going to do in the meantime? Pay for her hospice care in excess purses?
Wait, though.
I finger the fine leather and intricate stitching on the Gucci handbag on my lap. This is the kind of bag I never even dreamed of owning, and here it is.
Worth at least two thousand dollars.
I open the small hard case Paxton packed the jewelry in: a necklace and earrings worth easily five grand, if not more.
That may not get me current, but it would help, and at least buy me time.
It’s shitty, though.
They’re gifts.
But what else am I supposed to do?
A little Googling later, and I’ve created an account on a luxury goods resale app. Post pictures of the purse and the jewelry…
By the time the plane lands, I’ve got buyers for all three items, at nearly full value. Beginner’s luck, probably. I hadn’t expected it to work so fast.
I ask John to stop at a UPS store so I can put a few things in the mail—he looks at me with curiosity, but says nothing. When I go into the UPS store with a purse and come out without one, he raises his eyebrows, but says nothing.
With the items marked as shipped, my buyers send payment. The money goes through, hits my account, and by the time I’m at Mom’s nursing home, I can write a check to take care of the next couple of months.
Now I just have to hope that Paxton doesn’t notice.
17
“Why did you…” She has to stop for breath. “Why did you come back?”
I glare at her. “Mom. You thought I would just vanish? Never come back?”
She glares back. “Told you. Live your life, Mack.”
“I am. I just miss you.”
She softens. “Miss you too, baby.”
“It’s harder than I thought it would be,” I admit.
Mom frowns. Silent, thinking. “If you’re gone, how are you paying for the home?”
I sigh. I’d been hoping she wouldn’t ask. “I’m making it work.”
“How?”
“Mom, come on.”
“No.” She shakes her head with as much resoluteness as she can summon. “Tell me.”
“Don’t, please.”
“Tell…me.”
“I’d have to tell you everything.”
“So tell.”
My throat catches. I can tell her now, because I have an agreement with Paxton, and I won’t back out. Mom won’t ask me to, because I gave him my word, and I don’t go back on my word. Mom set that in stone for me from day one. You make a promise, you keep it.
“Remember Paxton?” I ask, my voice heavy and flat.
She nods. “You hated him.”
“I didn’t hate him, I just…” I swallow hard. “I’ve agreed to marry him.”
Mom blinks once. And then, slowly, with visible effort, she sits up, shaking and sweating from the exertion necessary for something so simple. “You what?”
I nod. “In a month.” I close my eyes, because I can’t admit the rest with her eyes boring into me. “I’ve been living with him in DC.”
“Why?”
“It’s complicated.” I weigh my options. “His mother is forcing him to get married. I think I mentioned the situation, but it’s for political reasons, mainly. The plan is, we’ll get married, stay married for a while, and then get divorced. He has a bad reputation, playboy and all that. Well deserved, but really, it’s not who he is. It’s just an image he has, and getting married, having me around cleans that up. Then, when we split up, I’m taken care of. And I mean taken care of in a way you cannot even fathom.”
“You sleep with him yet?” Mom
’s eyes are sharp; MS has robbed her of her physical mobility, but her mind is as sharp as it ever has been. More so, maybe, because it’s all she has now.
“No.”
“You want to.” She doesn’t phrase it as a question.
“He’s good-looking. And a lot nicer than I thought. He comes across as arrogant—well, he is arrogant. But there’s more to him.”
Mom’s smile is wicked. “You like him.”
“It’s an arrangement. It has an expiration date. I can’t like him.” It’s odd, the twinge deep down inside when I say that.
“Mack.” She raises her eyebrows at me. “It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not.”
“How’d you pay?” She shifts tracks faster than anyone I know. “We were behind, now we’re not.”
“How do you know?”
She smirks. “I have my ways.”
“Not important. I took care of it. I’ll always take care of it. No matter what I have to do.”
She straightens again, eyes blazing. “Rules, Mack.” She’s getting tired, making it harder for her to speak.
“I am following the rules. The rules are keeping me from sleeping with him. This isn’t sexual, Mom. It’s an arrangement. I play wife for him, help him with his image, and then we will develop irreconcilable differences. We both move on.”
“And you get money.”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Something like that. A house, probably. A trust to make sure things are set.”
She sighs. “Doing this for me.” She seems sad, now. “You lied.”
I swallow, blink back tears. “Mom, come on. I was drowning. Three jobs, sixty, eighty hours a week and all my money went here.” I blink harder. “I was lonely, and he seems to like me. It can’t be anything, but it’s still nice to be liked.”
She nods, weakly. “He know about me?”
“He knows that my mom has health issues.”
A bitter bark of a laugh. “He know his money is going to take care of an angry, sick old black lady?”
“It’s not his business.”
“You marryin’ the man, Mack. It is.” A pause, as she gathers strength again. “How did you pay?”
I sigh. She won’t stop till I tell her. “Sold some things he bought me.”
“Like what?”
I look away. “A Gucci bag. Some diamond jewelry.”
Mom’s eyes widen. “Damn, girl.” She grins. “What else you get?”
I hide a smile. “Mom, it’s not mine. I shouldn’t have done it, but I was desperate. I can’t ask him for help.”
“Won’t, you mean.” She rolls her eyes. “He got you shit, it’s yours. You sellin’ it is your business.” Humor is gone, then. “He won’t like it, Mack. Don’t need to know him to know that.”
“I know,” I whisper. “I know.”
“Tell him.”
“No. He’ll pity me. He’ll do something nuts, like buy the whole nursing home.”
“So? Then no more problems.”
“It’s not his problem. It’s mine—ours.”
She shakes her head. “Stubborn girl.”
I grin at her. “Learned from the best.”
Her eyes flutter. “Ain’t stubborn. Just know when I’m right…and I’m always right.”
“I know, Mom.”
She flicks them open, fighting sleep. “Give it a real shot, Mack.”
I shake my head. “No. I can’t.”
“Why?”
“It won’t work.”
“How d’you know?”
I blink back tears. “I just do. He doesn’t want it to. He never wanted a wife. He just picked me because I’m a fuck you to his racist mom, and a way to toy with the expectations of the DC political scene and the media buzz around him.”
She grins. “Listen to you.”
I shake my head. “I’m keeping my heart and my body out of it.”
She grabs my hand. Squeezes hard. Eyes bug wide, burning fierce. “Try, Makayla Poe. Try. Please, for me. Try.”
I shake my head. “I can’t. I can’t.”
She squeezes even harder. “Mack.” Her voice is pleading. “Look at me.”
I look—it’s hard, it hurts like fuck to look. She’s so thin, so weak. Fighting as hard as possible, because she’s a tough old Detroit-raised bitch who don’t back down from nobody and nothing. But she’s tired. She hurts.
“I see you, Momma.”
She shakes her head, because that’s not what she meant. “No. Listen.” A long pause. “I know you…you don’t want to hear it. But I’m…gone soon. Not much time left. I can feel it.” I open my mouth to protest to scold her but she squeezes my hand so hard it hurts and I shut up. “I feel it, baby Mack. I feel it.”
“Momma, come on.”
She shakes her head. Her eyes laser into mine, and I can’t look away. Don’t dare. “Won’t go till you’re not alone.”
“If you go, I’m alone.”
She shakes her head. “Gotta let me go, baby. I’m tired.” She squeezes again, three times, hard. “But you—you have lived your whole adult life for me. No more, baby.”
“Momma—”
She cuts in. “He a good man?”
I consider. “Yes, I think he is. Completely out of touch with reality when it comes to money, but he’s a good person despite that.”
“He respect you?”
“He’s respected the fact that I’m not going to sleep with him.”
“Do you like him?”
I nod.
Mom’s eyes pierce deeper. “He like you?”
I hesitate. I nod again. “I think so,” I whisper.
She squeezes my hand. “Then try.”
“I’m scared to,” I admit. “Terrified.”
Mom’s smile makes me nervous. “Good.”
I frown. “Good? Why good?”
“If you’re scared, it means you got something real going on. Scarier it is, the bigger it is.” She pauses for a long time. “Give the man a chance, Mack.”
I shake my head, but it’s doubt rather than denial. “What if he breaks my heart, and you’re gone? What will I do?”
She lifts her chin high, proud. “I taught you strength, Makayla Poe. You ain’t a weak-ass bitch. You’re strong. Strong. It’ll hurt. That’s okay. You’re strong.”
I can’t help crying, and she doesn’t stop me this time. She’s crying too. “You taught me.”
“Get your big brown ass out of here, Mack.”
I laugh, hug her. “Okay, okay. You need to sleep.” I hug her again, hold on tight. “Mom, you have to promise you won’t go anywhere without—”
She shoves me away, holds me at arm's length. “I’ll go when I’m ready.”
“I’ll be there with you, Mom. Promise me.”
“Mack, I don’t want you to watch—”
“Promise me, Mom.” I choke. “Fucking promise, goddamn you.”
“I promise.” Her eyes are steady but wet. “I promise.”
“You and me, Mom. No matter what.”
She smiles, and pulls me in for a hug, and then I help her get settled into her pillows, Vanderpump Rules reruns playing. I watch her fade to sleep, and my heart aches.
I’ve faced my mom’s illness for years. But have I prepared myself for her death?
The drive to the airport is quick and silent, and the flight back to DC is long and even more silent.
The drive home is endless. Because, despite everything, the moment I walk into the foyer of Paxton’s DC condo, I do feel like I’m home.
Paxton is waiting for me.
And he’s pissed.
18
“Why didn’t you tell me, Makayla?” he growls.
I stop short of him; I’m emotionally spent, and his anger is a fierce, forceful, wild thing. “Tell you what, Paxton?”
“About your mom.”
I go into the kitchen, set my bag down, grab a bottle of Pellegrino from the refrigerator. Scratch that—I need something stronger. P
our a whiskey instead, and one for Paxton.
But he waves it off, and stands inches from me. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I did tell you. I told you I was visiting my mom. I told you she has health issues.”
“She’s in a hospice, Makayla.” He’s really, really pissed. “You sold things to pay for her care.”
I close my eyes. “John told you?”
“Yes, he did. He thought it was weird and was worried you were playing me.”
“I am playing you, Paxton!” I shout. “She’s got advanced MS. I was drowning in bills. I couldn’t keep up, even working three jobs.”
“Why—didn’t—you—tell me?” he bites out, his voice the feral crackle of a predator.
“It’s not your problem.”
“You’re about to marry a man worth millions, into a family worth billions, without a prenup, and you don’t think it pertinent to tell me your mother has a terminal illness?”
“She’s my mother. She’s dying. You can’t do anything. I can’t, no one can.”
“I could have helped.”
I shake my head. I can’t explain it. “Paxton, you don’t understand. She’s all I have.”
“So why not let me help?”
“Because—”
“Because you’re too damn proud and stubborn to ask for help!”
I sink to the floor, finally cracking. Weeping. “She’s my mother,” I sob. “My mom. She worked all day every day, menial petty shitty-ass jobs so I could eat and have shoes and go to school. I dropped out to help her, but she made me go back and graduate.” I snort. “By graduate, I mean get my GED. So I at least have that. Then she got sick and…it was my turn to take care of her. I promised her I’d take care of her.”
“Me helping is taking care of her.”
I can only shake my head again. “No. No. I have to. Me.”
Paxton settles on the floor next to me. “You don’t have to do it alone, Makayla.”
“I do.”
“You don’t.”
He sighs. Wraps an arm around me.
It was so hard seeing her, hearing her talk about dying, and I just can’t stop myself from collapsing against him.
The light fades.