for twenty minutes before we’re kicked off. I toss my phone down and groan—hating that I can only talk to my brother via collect calls with a time limit.
15
Georgia
I’m finishing off a strawberry Pop-Tart when there’s a knock on my door.
“Coming!” I scrape the crumbs off the table, pile them in my hand, and drop them into the trash can on my way to answer it.
As soon as I open the door, a wave of dizziness hits me, and I release a sharp breath as we stare at each other.
I’m not sure how long it’s been.
Seven, eight years maybe?
Sometimes, when I walk down the street, I ask myself if I’d recognize her if we passed each other. My question is answered, only we’re not passing each other. She’s on my doorstep.
Seconds pass as neither one of us mutters a word.
“Hi, Georgia,” she finally whispers.
Anita Fox.
My mother.
I strengthen my grip on the doorknob, questioning if my next action should be slamming the door in her face.
I can’t.
I can’t because I’m hit with the reminder of when I showed up at my dad’s house, only to be rejected. I’d never hurt someone like that.
It’s not in my heart.
Not in my soul.
She moves from one foot to the other.
“Come in,” I rush out, waving my hand forward and widening the door to give her room.
Her face registers shock as she digests my words. That clearly wasn’t the reaction she expected, and she takes slow steps into my home.
Did she expect me to be a monster like my father?
“Can I get you something to drink?” I ask, shutting the door.
Please don’t say alcohol.
Or crack-laced water.
She clears her throat. “I’ll take whatever you have.”
“Tea? Water? Coffee?”
“Water would be nice.” She bows her head. “Thank you.”
She follows me into the kitchen, where I pour us two glasses of water. I hand her one before leading us into the living room, and it’s quiet when we both sit—me on the couch and her taking a seat on the chair.
I have so many questions.
Why is she here?
Why didn’t she come all those years before?
There’s no holding myself back from asking, “Why are you here? How do you know where I live?” My tone isn’t angry, yet it’s not friendly.
Just because I didn’t shut the door in her face doesn’t mean I’ll get my hopes up or that I’m elated she’s here. She’s visited Cohen a few times at his house or his job, begging for money. He helps her, and then she disappears in the middle of the night until she needs help again.
One time, I asked Cohen if he thought she was dead. He said no, that he checked on her regularly—whatever that meant—and that I had nothing to worry about. I never knew if he was telling me that to make me feel better or if it was the truth.
Her hand shakes, causing the glass to rattle. “I was in rehab with a woman whose brother is a private investigator. I asked him to look you up because I wanted to see you.”
“Why?” I take a small sip of water.
“I’m clean now and getting my life together.”
I stare at her skeptically. “How do I know that’s true?”
Her shoulders slump. “You don’t, and I understand you might not believe me. I’m here because I’d like to prove to you that I am.”
I lean back on the couch and take her in, searching for any signs that she’s using. She’s aged, which is normal, given it’s been years since I’ve seen her. She doesn’t look healthy, but she doesn’t look strung out either. She was … or possibly is still an addict, and her abuse shows in her every feature.
Briefly, I wonder what she would’ve looked like had she never become an addict.
Would she look more like me?
I see our resemblances—her chestnut-brown hair, her height, even her eccentric style.
I glance down at my phone when it rings, and Cohen’s name flashes on the screen. I could answer it, tell him my situation, and ask him what I should do. He’d tell me to ask her to leave, or he’d drive here and do it himself.
I ignore the call and focus my attention on her. “You’d like to prove it to me? How?”
“What’s on your mind over there?”
I peek up from my computer. “Huh?”
“You’re zoned out,” Archer replies. “Everything okay?”
I sigh. “Yes.” Another sigh. “No.”
The bar has weirdly become my new study sanctuary. Who would’ve thought I could concentrate better when people were drinking and cheering on sports around