Bad Liar (The Reed Rivers Trilogy #1) - Lauren Rowe Page 0,63

chicken pot pies. Your favorite.”

They’re not my favorite. In fact, I rarely eat carbs. “Maybe next time,” I say. “I’ve got to keep this visit short, like I said.”

Mom frowns. “Your last visit was short, too.”

“No. Last time, I spent the entire day with you. We watched Jeopardy and played Scrabble. Remember?”

She shakes her head. “No. Last time, you had to leave because of some awards show.”

Oh my fucking God. The Grammys thing was months ago. During my most recent visit, Mom had a terrible meltdown, so I stayed the entire day with her, holding her hand. Listening to her talk. Trying, and failing, to make her smile. And then, finally, when she calmed down, we watched Jeopardy and played fucking Scrabble. And, by the way, I did all of this, even though I had so much on my plate at work, I hadn’t slept more than three hours a night in a week.

And while I’m cataloging recent visits in my mind, the visit before the most recent one was a long one, too. During which, as I recall, I joined Mom’s yoga class, let her win in checkers, and listened to her read mind-numbing poetry by Sylvia Plath. But, of course, Mom doesn’t remember my last two extra-long visits. All she remembers is the time, months ago, I had to make it quick because Grammy nominations had just been announced, and my artists had collectively received more nominations than ever before—and I had to blow out of here to manage the happy chaos of my life.

“Come,” Mom says, putting out her hand. “I want to show you my painting.”

I take her hand and let her lead me to her room, and then “ooh” and “aah” as she shows me the picnic I’ve already seen.

Simply to make conversation, I ask, “Once you finish filling in the grass and trees, will it be complete? Or is there something else you’re planning to add, after that?”

Shit. Tears instantly well in Mom’s eyes. “I can’t finish the grass and trees because I’m out of the right color green!” she blurts. “And the only place they sell it is Sennelier!”

And that’s it. She melts down. Which is so fucking crazy, I can’t stand it. Sennelier isn’t Mars, for fuck’s sake. It’s a renowned art store in Paris, with an easy-to-navigate online store—the place I order all Mom’s uber-expensive art supplies. And yet, she’s just said the name of the place like it’s located in another dimension.

I grab a tissue off Mom’s nightstand and hand it to her. “I’ll order whatever you need online, Mom. There’s no need to cry.”

“How? You can’t help me because you’re going back to California.”

I can’t help chuckling at the way she just said “California,” as if she’d said the word “Satan” in its place. “Mom. Take a chill pill, would you? I’ll pay whatever it takes to get it here overnight. Come here. Watch this.” I pull her sobbing frame to the bed and sit her down, the same way I’ve done countless times. Calmly, I get onto my phone and head to the French art store’s website—a site I’ve already bookmarked for easy access—and then place an outrageously expensive order for rush delivery of every single shade of green in their store. “See? Aucun problème, madame. Whatever your heart desires, I’ll always get it for you. No need for tears.” I put my arm around her frail shoulders and hug her to me and she cries a river of tears—a torrent that obviously has nothing to do with her needing a few more tubes of green paint. As Mom’s tears continue flowing, I covertly check my watch. Fuck. “I’ve got to go, Mom,” I say, my stomach twisting. “I really can’t miss my flight.”

“Because you have to go to California.”

“Because I need to work.”

“But you haven’t had lunch yet.”

“Next time. I’ll eat on the plane.”

She sits up and levels me with her dark, piercing eyes. “You’re staying for lunch, Reed Charlemagne,” she declares. “I won’t take no for an answer.”

I take a deep breath and bite my tongue. God, how I hate that fucking expression. She’s said it my whole fucking life, as long as I can remember, and whenever I hear it, no matter the situation, the only thing I want to do is scream “No, no, no, motherfucker!” like a toddler with a very dirty mouth. But, because I’m an adult, and I really shouldn’t call my mother a motherfucker, I take another deep breath, squash