Desperate Chances (23 page)

I ignored Cole. It was the easiest thing to do. I grinned at Mitch though and his cheeks turned red. Was that because of me?

“I should have known you were a closet dendrophiliac,” I teased.

“What in the hell is a dendrophiliac?” Mitch scoffed, trying not to laugh.

I leaned forward and Mitch leaned forward too. “You get turned on by trees,” I whispered and he let out a loud laugh.

“You’re making that up!” he accused.

I widened my eyes innocently. “Nope. It’s totally a thing. Google it.”

“No, I believe you. But trust me, I don’t become aroused by bark,” he protested with amusement.

“Aroused by bark? What in the hell are you two talking about?” Vivian jumped in, knocking over her drink. Liquid sloshed across the table and ended up in my lap.

“Vivian! You suck!” I screeched, jumping to my feet. I looked down at my wet pants. “Great, now it looks like I peed myself!”

“Oh, yeah, it does. Sorry about that, Gracie,” Vivian apologized.

I climbed out of the booth, glaring at my roommate and her annoying boyfriend who was laughing his ass off.

I hurried to the bathroom and tried to dry myself the best I could. My phone rang mid-clean up.

“Hello?”

I shouldn’t have answered. I should have let it go to voicemail. But I didn’t. Because I had briefly forgotten how caller ID worked.

“Darling, there you are! I’ve been trying to call you all morning.” I balled up the paper towels and threw them in the trashcan with a little more force than was necessary.

“Hi, Mom,” I said through gritted teeth.

“Where have you been? What is the point of having a phone if you never answer it?” Mom snipped. Obviously she was spoiling for a fight and no matter how I tried to avoid it, she’d find some way to turn our conversation into one.

“I’m out to lunch with my friends. We’re celebrating. I got some good news this morning,” I said brightly. Maybe I was wrong and she’d be proud of me. Maybe, for once, she could see that I was capable of something more than being their poor, little drunk daughter.

“Oh. Why is that?” my mother asked. She wasn’t interested. I could tell. I bet she was fixing her hair or baking cookies. Something that, in her estimation, deserved more of her attention.

“My editor at Southern Gardens magazine called me this morning. She was extremely impressed with my latest article. She offered me a fulltime staff writing position.”

“Oh. Well that’s nice, sweetheart,” she remarked dismissively. “I spoke with Dr. Chase yesterday and he can see you tomorrow morning. I think it would be good for you to see someone else since that quack you’ve been going to dropped your therapy to once a week.”

It was as though I had never spoken. My momentous news not even a blip on her radar.

I had a fulltime job. My editor had thought the work I did worthy of a promotion. What about that screamed
you need more shrinking?
Though I was sure she hadn’t really heard any of it. She had her reason for calling and that was all she focused on.

“Mom, I’m not going to see anyone else. And I don’t think it’s appropriate for you to discuss me with a professional without my consent. I’m an adult after all,” I told her sharply, pissed and hurt by her attitude.

“I am your mother. Of course it’s appropriate! I only want what’s best for you! Considering that you almost died because of your
issues,
clearly you need my input
.
And I know that you’ve lost weight, so it’s obvious you’re still struggling!”

“How would you know if I’ve lost weight? Do you have a camera in my bathroom?” I demanded. I couldn’t listen to this. Not now. Not when I should be feeling good about myself.

“Grace Cook, don’t you dare speak to me that way! I don’t know what’s happened to my wonderful, little girl, but she’s become a surly adult that I don’t think I like very much. This is why you need to move back home. You’re not yourself.”

Your wonderful, little girl is trying to grow a backbone,
I thought angrily but I didn’t say it. The conversation was already heated enough.

“I’ll pick you up in the morning around eight and we can go to the appointment together. Then we can go shopping for some new clothes,” my mother suggested, bulldozing over my thoughts and feelings as she always did.

“I’m not seeing a new therapist, Mom. You’ll just need to cancel that appointment,” I said firmly.

“Grace, I went to a lot of trouble—”

“I’ll try and get more time with Dr. Wainsbrook,” I conceded. I’d say just about anything to make her drop the subject.

“I’m not sure I like him. He doesn’t seem to take your problems very seriously,” Mom went on.

Sometimes I got the sense that she didn’t want me to get better. That my mother wanted me to be sick. That by fussing over me, it gave her life some sense of purpose.

My good mood had completely disintegrated.

My mother’s greatest talent was in knocking the wind from my sails. She could make it an Olympic sport.

“Well, you need to do something. I’m having a designer in this week to repaint your room and to replace your old furniture. I want you to come by to see it this week.”

“Mom—” I sighed.

“I’ll make a casserole. Something with a lot of calories,” she continued as though I hadn’t spoken.

“Okay. Fine. Whatever,” I muttered, staring at my reflection in the mirror.

The woman looking back at me had seemed so hopeful this morning. Now she just seemed…
deflated.

“Since you won’t be going to the therapist, I’ll call you tomorrow to schedule a time for you to come by this week. Love you.”

“Love you, too,” I said quietly.

I hung up and shoved my phone into my pocket. I looked down at the wet spot on my pants that hadn’t really dried. Looking like I pissed myself was clearly the least of my problems.

I left the bathroom and headed back into the restaurant. Mitch was standing at the bar talking to Dina and he glanced my way as I walked by.

“It’s not too bad,” he commented, indicated my jeans.

I shrugged. “Whatever. It’ll dry,” I answered dully.

Mitch frowned, his eyes narrowing. “What’s wrong?”

I laughed. It was brittle and hard. “Not a damn thing.” Dina went to tend to some other customers, leaving us alone at the end of the bar.

“I know you, Gracie. And I can tell when something’s gotten to you. You can tell me,” he prodded.

There was something about his face that made it easy to confide in him. It had always been that way. And in that moment it was comforting to fall back on how things used to be. When I could tell him anything and I knew that he’d listen.

So against my better judgment I opened myself. Even with all the shit between us I wanted to confide in him the way I had once been able to. I needed my friend.

I needed
Mitch.

And his girlfriend, his hurt feelings, or one night-stand didn’t matter.

“It’s my mother,” I said. “She has an amazing ability of making me feel like total shit.”

Mitch was more than aware of my rocky relationship with my parents. He knew about my ongoing feelings of failure and their unrealistic expectations.

He had been there when I had fallen apart after fights and cruel words.

He had seen, firsthand, the unhealthy dynamic that existed between my family and me.

“What did she say?” he asked, sitting down on a stool and inclining his head to the empty one beside him.

I hesitated only a moment before hopping up beside him, propping my chin with my hand. “I tried to tell her about my promotion. She only wanted to talk about how I needed to see a new therapist. One that clearly thinks I’m crazier than my current one does.”

Mitch’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “You’re not crazy, Gracie,” he said severely.

“Tell that to my mother,” I murmured, rubbing my temple.

I felt his hands on my elbow and I looked up at him. I ignited under the intensity of his gaze. “When I met you all those years ago you were the most confident person I had ever met. You were a little nutty, but it was the good kind of nutty.”

I snorted. Was that a compliment? I couldn’t really tell. Mitch went on. “You liked to have a good time and everyone knew it. You owned who you were, with no apologies.”

I ducked my head at his description of the person that I used to be. I wasn’t necessarily proud of that girl. She had been a bit of an idiot. A selfish idiot. Mitch Abrams should know that better than anybody.

He lifted my chin, his fingers firm on my skin. Our eyes met and I couldn’t look away.

“I feel like somewhere along the way, you lost some of that girl and that makes me incredibly sad. Because, Gracie Cook, you’re smart. You’re capable. You’re fucking incredible and you don’t even realize it.” He was breathing heavily, clearly worked up by his admission and my eyes began to burn.

“So are you, Mitch,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

Mitch’s lips quirked upward into a tiny smile. “I bet you say that to all the guys,” he teased half-heartedly. Then he sobered and became serious again. “Don’t let your mother dictate the opinion you have of yourself. Because if she can’t see all the things that I do, then
she’s
the crazy one.”

I swallowed thickly and had to look away before I started to cry. He stripped me to the bone so effortlessly.

“Thanks.” I gave him a watery smile without meeting his eyes.

“You’re going to have to find that place where it’s okay to stand up to her. Because you deserve better than that, G. You always have,” he finished, dropping the folded napkin onto the bar and getting to his feet rather abruptly. “I should get going. I only came in because I saw Jordan’s car in the parking lot.”

“Oh. Okay. You can stay you know.” I hesitated before continuing. “It’d be nice if you did.”

Mitch’s face was unreadable if not a little conflicted. He shifted on his feet as though not sure what he should do.

“But if you have things to do, it’s fine—”

“No, I can stay.” One heartbeat. Two heartbeats. Three… “I’d like to,” he said softly.

“Awesome.” I grinned. It was a real one. I forgot about my mother. About my embarrassingly wet crotch. About all the weirdness that typically lurked between us.

Because he looked at me in a way I hadn’t seen in a long time.

Like I was a girl who mattered.

To
him
.

“C
ole just got here. We’re just waiting on you, buddy,” Jordan said over the phone. I pulled into the gas station and cut the engine.

“I just have to pick up Sophie. I’ll be there in twenty. Tell him to keep his shirt on,” I muttered.

“This is Cole we’re talking about here. His shirt’s already off,” Jordan sighed and I chuckled.

“Tell him if he messes with my saved settings on my game, I’ll kick his ass,” I said.

“Then hurry up. Maysie’s making potato skins. I’m not saving you any if you take much longer.”

“Yes, sir,” I replied. I hung up the phone and got out of my car. A short beep caught my attention.

Gracie waved at me from the other side of the pumps.

Stomach clenching. Check.

Heart thumping. Check.

Get a grip, Mitch!

We both climbed out of our respective cars. I unscrewed the gas cap. I felt like I was going in slow motion. I dropped the cap onto the ground and had to crouch down to get it. When I stood back up, I smacked my head on the side of the car. I was flustered.

“You okay?”

I could feel her standing behind me, but I didn’t want to look at her. It was a bad idea. Looking at Gracie Cook only brought about death, destruction, and uncomfortable hard-ons.

Of course I looked at her. I was a weak, weak man.

“You hit your head pretty hard. Any dizziness? Nausea?” she joked.

“I think I’ll live,” I snorted, patting the lump that had already formed.

She went back to her car on the other side of the pump.