I breathe in the chemistry wrapping around us. I feel it. I see it in his grey-blue eyes and right now, I want him to keep me. I want him to continue his attempts at flirting. I want him to make me smile, make me laugh, and bring back the side of me I’ve missed for so long. But then reality sets in. It whirls back around to the forefront of my mind, sweeping away any hopes I have of normalcy, of affection, of…love. Again, I’m reminded of all the reasons why Logan and I can’t be more than what we are. I let out a slow breath, one I’d been holding since he leaned in close enough to kiss me. “Okay. Well, um, chat soon?” I ask nervously.

“Yeah, sure.” He nods and turns away, walking back to the stack of wood assuredly. I watch as he bends over, picks it up, and tosses it over his shoulder. He doesn’t look back.

* * *

The drive into Manhattan is better than I had anticipated, except for one thing—the entire drive all my thoughts trail off to Logan. I question whether I should just come clean and tell him about my “issue.” At least that way if he wants to back off, he can. It won’t bother me. I’ve only known him for a little more than a week. And we haven’t shared anything more than what we’ve shared, which isn’t much.

The car pulls up and stops in front of Moon. The driver opens the door for me and gives me his business card with instructions to call him when I’m ready to be picked up. I quickly take in the busy streets of New York and hurry into the restaurant. Being in and around large crowds, especially the hectic crowds of New York, makes me feel uneasy.

My anxiety kicks in as I step into the waiting area of the restaurant. It must be a busy day for the restaurant. It’s jam-packed. I weave through all the people waiting to be seated and approach the hostess. “Hello, I have a reservation under Gregory McDaniel.”

The hostess skims through the list. “Yes, he’s already seated.” She tilts her head toward a gentleman beside her. “Please take her to table 45.”

The gentleman’s gaze lands on me. With a smile he says, “Please, follow me.” And so I do. I follow closely behind, focusing my eyes on the back of his head. “Here you are.” He halts. I almost stumble into him, but I catch myself before I do.

My anxiety quickly dissipates as he walks away and my father turns to face me. His warm smile lights up his face. “Jenna, you look absolutely beautiful.” He stands, places a peck on my cheek and guides me into the booth. He settles in as well, across from me. It’s the same booth he always reserves—tucked in the far corner of the restaurant, beside a large window that looks out over Manhattan’s skyscrapers. Although Moon is surely filled to capacity, our little corner feels private, like it’s just the two of us in the crowded space.

“I’m glad you were able to make it,” Dad says. He stretches his arm out across the booth and grabs my hand.

“Me too.” I gently smile at him. “We haven’t had one of these in a long time. It’s nice.”

“Yes. It was quite overdo, wasn’t it?” He grins. The waiter approaches us and we order our usual. Dad leans back, unbuttoning the perfectly tailored suit jacket as his eyes pierce mine. “So, tell me, how are you feeling?”

“All right, I guess,” I answer with a slight shrug.

“Jenna,” he hesitates. “I don’t want to make you upset”—which means he will—“but I want to speak to you about your mother.”

Here we go.

My shoulders tense uncomfortably. “I’d rather not. I just want to enjoy lunch with you without Mom ruining my day, as always.”

“Well, how about we just get it out of the way so we can enjoy the rest of our lunch? What do you say?”

“Fine.” There’s no escaping this conversation, so I give in. “What do you want to talk about?”

“First, I feel you owe your mother an apology.” My eyes narrow to a harsh glare, and he lifts a hand to stop me from an outburst. “Before you say anything, I feel she owes you an apology as well. I’m not picking sides, Jenna. I love you both. It’s very difficult for me to see two women whom I love deeply despise one another. She’s your mother, and you are her daughter. I’m already swamped with work in the office. I have a potential client I’ve been trying to pull in for years that’s finally beginning to cave. The last thing I need is to come home to the two of you acting like juveniles. I shouldn’t have to deal with it. It’s infuriating. Do you understand?”

I cross my arms over my chest. Is this what our little lunch date was for? For him to just educate me on my rights and wrongs? For him to judge my relationship with Mom, even though he has yet to witness just how cruel she can be? I can’t help but laugh. “Yes, I understand,” I say, hoping it ends this topic.

“Good. I arranged for the two of you to have a girls’ spa day tomorrow.”

“What?” I nearly shout.

“Can you at least pretend to be thrilled about it?”

“I’m sorry if I’m not bursting at the seams with excitement at this very moment. But I’m not ready to face a woman who told me I shouldn’t blame others for my failures during one of my episodes,” I blurt out. My father’s twisted expression immediately has me feeling guilty for not thinking before I spoke.

“She said that to you?” he asks, his tone low, his eyes darkening in distress. Not toward me—he’s disappointed in my mother. And I know I shouldn’t care if he is or isn’t, but when it comes to my mother and me, my father has a very soft spot. When he looks at her as if she’s let him down, I can feel exactly how she feels. The burning whole within your chest. The shame of knowing that you’ve disappointed a loved one. It’s how I feel every time she looks at me.

My mother, when she gets one of those stares from my father, does everything and anything to win back his affection. She would be nothing without my father. If she had to, she’d crawl through a pile of nails, walk through fire, and swim through a tank of sharks to win back his love. Because that’s what you do for people you love, right? And she loves him. Truly loves him. And she knows if he ever left her, she’d have no one. She’d always be alone.

Maybe she’s more fucked-up than I am.

Sometimes I wonder if she would be better off alone. Other times, I wonder why I feel bad for her in the first place. Is it because deep down she’s still my mother and I’m still waiting for her validation? No matter what has happened between us, if she were ever to change, if she were to ever tell me she was truly, sincerely sorry and wanted to work on our relationship, I’d do anything to win that from her, to win the affection of my mother’s love. But we’ve gone through this for so many years now, and she’s always been the same with me. I’ve gone bitter. And my mother? Well, she has too much pride to ever ask to rebuild what’s been damaged between us.

“Yes,” I confess quietly, averting my eyes in shame. I lower my head and stare at my hands as I press my palms together, trying to absorb the dampness.

“I see,” he says. “I wasn’t aware—”

“You’re not aware of a lot. You’re hardly around anymore. So, yeah.”

Silence.

I don’t dare look up at him, though I can feel his stare burning into me. It’s not normal for me to lash out at my father, or even talk back. I respect him far too much to treat him like I treat my mother. So, of course, the guilt sets in.

His phone buzzes against the table. I peek up as he reaches for it, hesitates, then swipes the screen and lifts the cell to his ear. “Honey,” he answers, his voice calm and monotone, “I’m having lunch with our daughter.” I swallow a large lump wedged in my throat. Dad keeps his eyes on me but continues on with Mom, “Yeah. We have a lot to talk about when I get home tonight.” Oh shit. He’s going to tell her about what I said. No. I can’t deal with the aftermath. She’ll be angry, she’ll take it out on me by saying things, hurtful things. I can’t handle this right now.

My leg begins to shake. Tugging on the skin of my lip, my eyes shift his way as I hear him go on, “I’m not discussing this with you right now; I want to enjoy lunch with my daughter. No. Tonight, Laura… Hold on.” He pulls the phone away, glares at the screen, and then brings it back to his ear. “I have to take this call. I’ll see you tonight.” He swipes the phone, dismissing my mother, and goes on to the next call. “This better be good, Stanley—” Dad stops to listen. It must be good news. His lips curl into a smile, and it’s as if my mother and I are no longer a concern. “That’s amazing. I want the contract drawn up immediately, before he changes his mind. Yes. While you’re preparing the contract, I’ll make the necessary phone calls. I should be back in the office within”—he glances at his watch—“fifteen minutes.”

Dad ends the call. He reaches for his wallet, pulls out a few hundred-dollar bills, and places them on the table. “Jenna, I’m so sorry—”

“It’s okay. I get it. No worries. You’re a busy man.”

His smile is gentle. “I’ll make this up to you. I promise.”

A promise he’ll never be able to keep, but I go along with it anyway. “I know.”

Before I know it, he’s up and out of sight.

Lips trembling, I bite down to focus on the physical pain rather than the emotional. There’s an ache in my chest that I’m not sure how to soothe. Brooke would’ve known what to do; she would have made me laugh. I wish she were here.

I miss her.

I’ve suddenly lost my appetite. Reaching for my phone, I call the driver and ask to be picked up.

* * *

I wanted to keep going, to just drive and drive and never look back. But the driver was growing impatient, and I had no choice but to finally direct him home after four long hours.

We pull up in front of the house. I feel suffocated, stuck. I don’t want to get out. This backseat has become a protective bubble over the last few hours, but time’s run out and I have nowhere else to go. Charlie isn’t picking up my phone calls, so as the driver opens the back door and reaches in to give me his hand, I reluctantly take it. “Thank you,” I mumble as I step out.

“My pleasure, Ms. McDaniel.” Sure it is. He nods, shuts the door, and steps back to the driver side. My back faces my home. I breathe in, trying to soothe my nerves and muster enough courage to turn around and go inside. The car drives off, and my breath whooshes out as I turn around and see her. My mother. A knot twists painfully in the pit of my stomach. She’s standing with the door wide open at our front entrance. She must have heard the car and expected my father. From this distance I can’t see her features, but I can tell by her slumped shoulders that she’s disappointed. Then she lifts her head and straightens up, turns around swiftly, and slams the door closed. The resounding thump is so loud I can hear it clearly from where I stand.

I fucking hate her.

“How was that date, Jersey?”

My head snaps to the left. Logan is by his truck, packing his tools away. I didn’t realize how late it is. His shift must be over. I roll my eyes, not in the mood to joke or flirt or anything. My fingers clench the strap of my clutch as I focus directly on the double doors, behind which my mother awaits. Do I go in, dreading what’s to come, or do I just walk away and give us both some space?

The second sounds like a better idea. I chuck off my heels, reach down for them, and then turn, walking up the slight hill of our long street.

“Jenna?” Logan calls out. I avoid him and keep going. Not running, not strolling, just walking at a normal, even pace with my focus determinedly straight ahead.

She’s pissed off at you. She hates you. She’s never cared about you…

Well, I hate her back.

You’ll never live up to her expectations. You’ll never be perfect—her perfect little girl…

My feet push forward faster now, keeping up with the voices trying to seep through my sanity, trying to take over. I realize now—and damn me for never putting it together before—that my mother is a major trigger for me. I don’t know how or why I allow her to crawl so deep into my psyche, but she does and she always has.

Tires crunch over rocks alongside me. Looking over, I see Logan driving slowly in his truck with a smile tilting his stubble, irritatingly gorgeous cheeks up. Irritating because I don’t want to look at him this way. I don’t want to notice his handsome features and I don’t want them to do anything to my heart or my chest or my head or anything. I just want him to go away.

“You know, I’m starting to get a feeling you like to be barefoot outside,” he says.