Page 31 of Wrong For Me

Don’t be silly,I tell myself for what feels like the hundredth time.You’ve always wanted your PhD. You’ve always wanted to be a psychologist. This is the path you’ve been on since you were a teenager.

So why does it all feel so frightening all of a sudden?

“You know you can talk to me, right?” my mother asks suddenly, and I turn to face her, wondering what she might have read in my face just now. Her expression is neutral but I can see the worry in her eyes.

“I know that, Mom. Of course I do.” If there’s anything my parents have drilled into us over the years, it’s the importance of communicating. It’s kind of their thing.

Her eyes scan my face, searching for something. “Are you sure, Rose? Because sometimes I think…” she pauses, swallows. Swallows again. Takes a deep breath. “Because sometimes I think that you try to protect me when that should be my job.”

“Mom.” I stare at her, at a loss. There’s so much guilt bleeding through her voice, like she’s afraid she’s hurt me somehow, and I hate that.

Then her eyes drop to the faint, decades-old scars on her wrists, her eyes clouding over, and I feel sick.

My mother is afraid that I think she’s too weak to confide in, but nothing could be farther from the truth. Daisy Ransome is the strongest person I’ve ever met. The mere fact that she’s standing in this kitchen, after everything she’s been through, is testament of that.

“Mom, of course I know that I can tell you anything. You’ve always made sure that I knew that.”

But that doesn’t mean I alwayswantto. There’s little I hate more than causing my parents to worry on my behalf. We’ve been down that road before, when everything blew up so spectacularly with my ex, and few things had ever hurt so badly as the fear and guilt I saw in my mother’s eyes when my world fell apart. She takes too much on herself, assigns herself blame that she has no right to. Watching her hurt on my behalf was even more painful than the hurt I felt in the first place.

I won’t be the cause of that heartache for her. Not again. Not if I can help it.

She takes a breath, turning her wrists so the scars are no longer visible, then looks up at me again. “You’ve seemed a little off this summer, sweetheart,” she says. “I didn’t want to push it, but you haven’t talked to me about whatever is bothering you and it’s starting to worry me.”

Well, shit. And here I’d thought I’d done such a good job of hiding my silly, aching heart.

But at least there’s something I can confess, something honest, even if it doesn’t quite encompass all the things that are weighing on me right now.

“There was a boy I liked,” I admit. “And he…didn’t like me back, I guess. I’ve been a little down about it.” A little down is an understatement, but no need for my mother to know how completely pathetic her oldest daughter is, heartbroken after one night with a near stranger.

Worry lines crease her forehead and I barrel ahead before she starts asking too many questions. “Add in the nerves about school starting and I guess I haven’t been myself.”

“Who is this boy?” she asks, because of course that’s the part she’s going to focus on. “Do I need to hurt him?”

I laugh at the image of my short-statured, gentle-natured mother hurting anyone, let alone tall, muscular Leo Malone. She would do it though, if I asked her to. No doubt about it.

“No, Momma. He’s no one.”

Her eyes narrow. “Are you sure? Because if he hurt you, I will not hesitate to kick his ass. And my ass-kicking skills are on point, Rose.”

“I don’t doubt that. But no need. I probably won’t ever see him again anyhow.”

As the truth of those words settles over me, my heart gives a weak little throb. At least the pain has lessened a bit—that last day in Lake Tahoe, when it became clear that Leo wasn’t going to call me after all, the throb had been more like a sharp pain.

Which is stupid,I tell myself. Again.Because you hardly even knew him.

But just like every other time I’ve given myself the same reminder, it doesn’t do much good. Apparently, my heart is an illogical, stubborn little organ because it doesn’t seem to give a shit how well I knew Leo. No, my heart insists on going over that night, again and again.

The thing is, I really thought we had a connection. That’s the hard part for me to get over. I don’t usually feel such an immediate closeness with anyone. Hell, it’s hard for me to even form friendships with people outside of this family. Leo seemed different.

But, apparently, I was wrong about that. Because Leo never called me after that morning I left his apartment. Not even after I left a note for him with the bar supervisor of the festival, hoping against hope that maybe he’d lost the slip of paper with my number on it.

When I still didn’t hear from him, I had to accept it. I’d been wrong. He couldn’t have been clearer—he got what he wanted when we hooked up. That’s all I was to him—a night of fun. Nothing more.

“I think we have enough here,” my mom finally says, when it’s apparent I’m not going to elaborate any more on the guy who didn’t like me back. She scoops her cut strawberries into the fruit salad. “Ready to go out and have some lunch?”

I force my features into a smile so she won’t be able to tell that my heart is still aching. “Let’s do it.”

I follow my mother out into the sunny back yard, filled with the loud and crazy family I love so much, and tell myself, yet again, that it’s high time for me to get over it. Because, like I just told my mother, it’s unlikely that I’ll ever see the gorgeous bartender ever again.