Twenty-Nine
-LAUREN-
Hailey chatted to campers as she manned the register all Monday in the coffee shop. I stayed by the espresso machine, trying not to make eye contact with anyone.
Carter hadn’t texted or called all weekend, and relief flooded my system when Kellie pulled into the Bridgeport parking lot, so I could stop checking. She dropped me off early this morning, wanting to talk some more, but I didn’t. What was the point? All I wanted was to lock myself in my room, crawl into bed, and forget everything else. Not exactly a realistic dream with June in the bed across from mine, but just because I was stuck facing everyone at Bridgeport didn’t mean I couldn’t escape a million miles away in my mind.
All day, I watched out the window, imagining a big red Chevy skidding to a stop out front, Carter leaping out and limping toward me in his broken marine’s stride. He’d burst through the door, and get down on one knee, and tell me that he loved me, that Megs was in the past and I’d be his future. His forever.
I still wanted him to want to.
Instead, right after lunch, a shiny new white Land Rover pulled into the parking lot.
A familiar, painfully skinny, but super elegant woman slid out of the driver’s side in a pressed white polo and khaki Bermuda shorts, wearing a massive black sun hat. My stomach hit the floor.
Mom.
I couldn’t think of a single positive reason for a surprise visit. She closed her door and scanned the buildings, chin held high, shoulders back, spine in precise alignment.
When Mom paused, staring straight at me through the shop window with her lips pursed, I wanted to dive behind the espresso machine. Why didn’t I go for a preppy look today? Instead, my hair was totally bohemian. Thick, teased braids were pinned in the shape of a crown at the top of my head, the end, a chunky fishtail braid, draped in front of my shoulder.
And, yeah, I’d added underlying blond hairpieces to bulk it out, which Mom would call trashy, but actually added the perfect contrast.
Dang it.
I couldn’t have gone simple with the makeup either. I went for smoky eyes this morning, for an extra boost of confidence after my hellish weekend. My military-inspired sleeveless green jumpsuit definitely wouldn’t impress the woman who hated all things military either, and especially not since I’d paired it with strappy black heels. Heels Mom would label sleazy.
“Fancy lady,” Hailey said. “She looks just like you, actually. Only more . . .”
“Country club?”
“Exactly!”
“I have to go talk to her. Are you cool if I take off early?”
“I have you covered,” she replied. “Good luck.”
“Thanks.” I tried to smile. It didn’t work. I removed my apron and grabbed my purse as I pressed my shoulders back, neck extended, chin held high. Mom’s tacky little twin.
“Hello, Mother,” I said, after stepping outside. Since I was pretty sure I knew why she was here, I wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of asking about my pregnancy. I motioned toward the picnic benches beneath the grove of sequoias. “Should we sit down?”
I pressed my lips into a fine line to match hers. She wanted to play the cold game? I could be the queen of ice.
Her eyes trailed mine to the benches. “Yes.”
Mom walked off ahead of me, and I pulled my aviator sunglasses out of my purse and put them on. I grabbed my ruby-red lip gloss next and made sure I had full coverage. Taking a deep breath, I sat and faced her, my mom, a strange mirror to my own reflection. Older. Definitely classy. Supposedly wiser.
“I called Kellie. She told me that you’re pregnant.”
Wow. Nothing like cutting to the chase.
“For the past few days I’ve been thinking about you and your sister.” She adjusted her sunhat. “I’ve thought about your past, and the decisions you’ve both made to get to this point.” She sighed, closing her eyes. “Kellie married to that, that construction worker. It’s shocking she and her children don’t actually live in a trailer—though her tiny house isn’t much better than one I grant you. And you, I had so many hopes for you, Lauren. You’re talented. You’re beautiful. Intelligent. You could have been a doctor, or a lawyer, a scientist, anything you wanted to be.”
“I’ve always loved fashion,” I said. “You know that, Mom. But it wasn’t good enough. You wanted me to be exactly like you, and if I couldn’t do that, I was rebelling.”
“I wanted you to be intelligent. To strive for a distinguished life. But you had to go the brainless route. Like your sister and your father. Of all the career choices, you didn’t even want to be a fashion designer! At the very least, you could have worked for an elite label. But no. The highest you could manage to aim for was makeup artist.”
“Stylist,” I hissed, thinking of the crazy-talented makeup artists I’d worked with on photoshoots and what amazing people they were anyway. She was so judgmental. She always had been.
“My great-great-grandmother was of noble descent, Lauren. We have Armenian royalty in our bloodline.”
“Oh great. The Princess Great-Grandma lecture again. But, you never taught me about the actual Armenian culture growing up, Mom.”
“If you’re so interested, ask your father. He’s from solid Armenian peasant stock—which I know nothing about. He should have taught you about that when you were a kid, only he was too busy being an Air Force fanatic.”
“That has nothing to do with heritage, anyway, Mom. That’s just your perfectionist image talking. An image none of us could ever live up to. Dad never once reamed me about my fashion goals. Back when we were a family, he was proud of my passion. Told me to apply myself and watch what happened.”
“Your
