The woman who ruined my wedding is here at my home. She hasn’t reached out to me since August when I sent her my “Enjoy him,” note.
But now she’s here on a Thursday morning.
Knocking.
This makes no sense.
I stare at my hand like it’s not even attached to my body. Like it’s been injected with novocaine and I can’t move it.
Do I let her in?
Ignore her?
Tiptoe to the bedroom and hide until she goes away?
Just like that, I know what to do.
I am not hiding. I grab the knob, open the door, and meet her gaze for the first time since she took my almost-husband from me.
“Hello,” I say. I don’t have time to fashion a quip or a zing.
She flashes a red-lipsticked smile at me. “Darling.”
It’s said without fear.
There is no hint of repentance in her voice. No sense she was ever in the wrong.
Her confidence unnerves me. I’m not sure how to handle her. My jaw tics, and I grit my teeth as I wait for her to speak.
Her eyes widen, and she peers inside. “Well, can I come in? Would you like to invite me?”
No. I would not like to.
But I’m morbidly fascinated with her chutzpah.
Also, she’s my mother. When I’m around her, I snap back to how I felt growing up.
Small.
I’m the gnat on her shoe, one of the kids she didn’t stick around for, and she’s the master of the universe. Curiosity wins. I open the door wide. I need to know why she’s here.
She sweeps in, scans the walls emptied of Silvio’s art, and surveys the couch strewn with colorful pillows. “The couch looks better now than in those neutral tones. Pinks are so very you . . .” She waves airily, and right is wrong and up is down, and why is my mom complimenting my taste in color, which is so vastly different from her man’s taste?
“What can I do for you?”
She spins around and presses her hands together like in prayer. “I’m here to ask you for a favor. An absolutely delicious one.” Her tone is imploring, her eyes wide and I’d even say guileless if I didn’t know her better. But I do know better.
Whatever she’s about to ask is all about her.
Everything’s all about her.
“Okay,” I say evenly, trying hard not to lose my cool. I don’t want her to know she still affects me. That seeing her rattles me.
How was I able to sass her when she swept into the suite before my wedding? Oh, right. Because that was before she capsized my plans.
Now I know fully what she’s capable of, and I hate that I come from her, that we share DNA.
She squeals, then gasps. “Katie! I’m engaged!”
I blink and jerk away. It’s like a blast of frigid air has whipped into my home and assaulted me. “What?” It comes out like it has ten syllables.
She flaps her hand, brandishing a fat ring. It’s shiny, gaudy, and so very her. “He asked me to marry him! Silvio did. And I said yes.”
I stumble backward, grabbing the kitchen counter behind me so I don’t fall.
Is this my life?
Is she truly here to show off her engagement ring?
But she steps closer, waggling her diamond at me. “He asked me to marry him on the Golden Gate Bridge.” She clasps her hand to her chest. “It’s so romantic. Isn’t it?”
She waits for an answer with expectant eyes, like my opinion on engagement locations matters.
“It’s great,” I say with zero emotion.
Why do I feel nothing? It’s eerie, this flatness in my heart. This nothingness.
I should be . . . livid.
Destroyed.
Why do I feel like I’m floating above this scene?
“That’s where we had our first date,” she adds, still giddy, still bouncing on her toes.
What did she just say? Their first date? She’s mentioning their first date? It had to have been . . .
“When he was with me,” I say, but it doesn’t come out enraged. I sound offhand, and I’m not sure what’s going on inside me.
She tilts her head. “C’mon, you’re not still upset about that, are you?”
Truthfully, I’m . . . not.
I’m not upset.
I’m not bothered at all.
I am, admittedly, mystified that anyone would brag to the ex about getting engaged. I’m amazed that she would think I’d want her to share this news.
“I’m not upset,” I say in the same flat tone—a tone that seems to vex her.
She flicks her wine-red locks off her shoulder, adopting a haughty expression. “Aren’t you happy for me?”
Is that what she wants? For me to be happy for her? With a surprised chuckle, I shrug. “I have no opinion, honestly.”
She furrows her brow, stomps her foot.
I laugh. Foot stomping? Is she serious?
“Katie, love, I want you to be happy for me,” she pleads, her big eyes begging.
“I’m sure you do,” I say, revealing nothing, feeling nothing.