She takes a seat as I step out hesitantly onto the balcony, realizing that in the three and a half or so months that I’ve been here, that I’ve never once sat on this balcony. Mostly, Paul just uses this spot to take phone calls during family meals.
I perch on the edge of a metal chair, holding my tea in two hands, like it’s a shield that might protect me from whatever it is that Tess wants to say.
She doesn’t seem to be in a rush, finishing her drink and then pouring another glass from a fifth of scotch that I’m more used to seeing Paul drink.
After a few minutes, I decide that I can’t take it anymore and break the silence myself.
“So about today …” I start but Tess lifts up a hand to stop me before I can even start. Her eyes are a bit glazed as she looks past me toward Lake Washington. Her mind is clearly elsewhere, wishing for Parrish’s safe return but imagining the worst.
I bet even her crime thriller writing mind couldn’t dream this one up. I take a sip of my tea in a futile attempt to soothe my nerves.
“I saw your video, Dakota,” she tells me, once again nailing my name. Why she waited until after all of this crap to get it right, I have no idea. It only makes things worse to be honest. “And I appreciate the effort, but you won’t find Parrish by making silly internet videos.”
And here we go, back to the same old, same old. My mouth twitches, but I can’t exactly protest, not after destroying her typewriter and bailing on the press conference.
Her next response surprises the shit out of me.
“I also just wanted to add that we’re not going to talk about the typewriter or the car.” I raise an eyebrow, my cheeks and chest flushing red with shame. “You’re hurting; I’m hurting. Emotions are running high, and I know you miss your brother.”
My … brother.
The word only increases that sense of shame in me. I wish I could tell Tess the truth, but I can’t do that without Parrish by my side. He has to be here for this; it affects us both but him more so. What if he’s changed his mind since? What if … what if he doesn’t make it and I destroy Tess’ last memories of her son? My stomach roils, and I down the rest of my tea in one go.
“I appreciate that,” I whisper back, ignoring the distant chatter of the reporters outside the front gate. Vultures, the lot of them, picking at the carrion of others’ feelings.
“Is it okay if I tell you a little story?” Tess asks, finishing her drink and pouring a third glass. That’s … a lot of alcohol, but I can’t exactly blame her. I’d love a drink myself.
I nod, even though I’m a little confused. I still have no clue where she’s going with this.
“Did I ever tell you that my grandmother—your great-grandmother—wanted to be a writer?” Tess leans back in her seat, her espresso-colored hair catching the cool breeze as it comes off the water.
“To be honest, Tess,” I start, and she cringes slightly, in much the same way that I do when she calls me Mia. Would it be hard for me to just try to call her mom? The thing is, mom is an honorific, a position that’s earned, and not just a name. I’m not sure that I’m ready for that. Part of me still feels a sense of loyalty for Saffron. “You haven’t told me many stories at all.” I swallow hard and set the mug on the small bistro table, rushing to correct myself before she gets the wrong idea. “But I’d like it if you did.”
She sighs but more like she’s tired and less like she’s annoyed.
“You’re right,” she says, but more to herself and less to me, like she’s making a mental note. Tess splashes more booze into her glass and chugs it, slamming the glass down on the table as I wait patiently for her to continue.
God, authors are so. fucking. weird.
“Well, my grandma wanted to be a writer so damn bad that she worked her ass off as a waitress to buy a typewriter from a secondhand shop. There was no chance in hell that she could save up for a computer at the time, so she did the best she could.” Tess taps her fingernails against the surface of the table in thought. When she finally looks at me, I’m struck by the earnestness in her expression. Where has this woman been all along when I needed her? I almost like the person I’m talking to now. “A 1960 Royal Royalite with a brown leather case. And oh, it was beautiful, so damn beautiful. She used to let me play with it when I was a kid, you know that?” Tess laughs and shakes her head slightly, lifting her drink to her lips. “Of course you don’t because I never told you.”
