Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,66
aren’t alone — you have Mark and Winnie.”
“Mark is at work all day and Winston is eleven months old. Not exactly a stimulating conversation partner.” She sighs deeply. “And as much as I love them, they aren’t being kissed in elevators by handsome, extremely eligible bachelors.”
“I see you’ve been talking to Shelby.”
Her tinkling laugh drifts over the line. “She may’ve filled me in on certain details. But it’s not the same, secondhand! What am I going to do without you around to keep things interesting?”
“Rest. Read a book. Keep growing that baby.”
“You sound just like Mark.” She huffs. “Traitor.”
I roll my eyes. “I’ll see you when I get back.”
“But—”
Before she can launch into a fresh string of protests, I reach out and power down my cell, cutting off the call and ensuring that Chrissy — predictably persistent — can’t call me ad nauseam until I change my mind about getting out of town. I wasn’t lying about needing a fresh perspective. I’d just failed to mention the fact that I was running away.
From the paparazzi camped outside my apartment.
From my rage-aholic ex-boyfriend intent on revenge.
From the crazy, Croft cousin who wants to use me as a pawn in his games.
But, mostly, from Chase.
And from the unexpected pain that splintered through my heart this afternoon when I heard the blonde’s voice on his answering machine.
As soon as Evan and Knox left earlier, the new cellphone they’d forced into my hands began to ring, the screen lighting up with a message that made my stomach flip.
CHASE CALLING
I’d pushed the ignore button, pretending not to hear the terrifying alert of a new voicemail that bleeped from the speakers twenty seconds later. I hadn’t listened to his message…
Or any of the others he’d left me, on two-hour intervals for the rest of the day.
But, when I zipped my duffle closed and crossed the apartment, ready to leave for the weekend, I’d stopped at the last minute, walked back to the coffee table, and grabbed the phone before I could talk myself out of it.
I wasn’t going to analyze why I’d brought it with me.
Because the idea that I was holding on to the only piece of Chase I’d ever be able to call my own… well, that was just too sad to even think about.
Chapter Twenty
Color
The screen door swings open on screechy hinges and a woman in her late fifties steps onto the porch, her dress clay-streaked and rumpled under the dim patio light.
“Gemma! It’s so late. What are you doing here?”
“Happy to see you too, Mom.” I snort.
A soft hand bats my shoulder playfully. “Oh, hush, you know I’m happy to see you. It just would’ve been nice to have a little more warning before Hurricane Gemma made landfall. A little time to tidy up, board up the windows, batten down the hatches…”
I roll my eyes — she’s called me Hurricane Gemma for as long as I can remember. Not my favorite nickname, even if it is well deserved. I spent most of my teen years stirring up a storm of drama in the quiet, coastal community where I grew up. The tiny, harbor-side art colony of Rocky Neck an hour north of Boston didn’t have much room for trouble, but what little I could find, I whipped into a tempest.
“Very funny, mother.”
She smiles joyously and it transforms her face — still stunning, despite its many laugh lines — from merely beautiful to truly gorgeous. All my life, I’ve wanted to look like my mother, envying her fall of thick blonde hair — now more ash than honey, with streaks of gray running through it here and there — and her tall, willowy frame. I got my father’s genes, instead — which was pretty much his only contribution to my life.
“It’s been too long, baby girl.” Wrapping her arms around me, Mom squeezes tight for nearly a minute. I breathe her in — lemon and lavender and fresh-drying clay — and I’m five years old again, all skinned knees and crocodile tears, and there isn’t a problem that can't be fixed with a hug and a kiss.
When she finally pulls away, she keeps her hands at my shoulders and examines my face with a mother’s shrewd eye. “Man trouble?”
“What?” I exclaim, my heart racing. Mom doesn’t own a TV or a computer — there’s no way she could’ve seen the news footage about Chase and me. “Why would you think that?”
God, is my pain so apparent, even my mother can read it on