Starting Over (19 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

W
hen I pull into the school parking lot the following week for the science fair, it’s almost full to capacity. But I don’t see Alex’s car anywhere, so I shoot him a quick text before walking inside and straight to the gym, where I’m supposed to meet up with him and find Josie’s entry.

Standing at the door of the gym, I peek inside and try to find my brother in case I missed his car outside, but I can’t spot him anywhere in the crowd. However, I do see Cameron.

He’s looking right at me with those dark eyes of his from across the room. He’s wearing one of his Professor Indiana Jones suits and looks too good to be true, reminding me of the very first time I saw him on that Back to School Night. He even has his cute little wire-rimmed glasses on. And then he pushes them up the bridge of his nose as if to distract himself and darts his eyes to another part of the gym, forgetting about me.

I deserve it, but it still hurts.

I start to look around again, but this time for Josie. She never told me what her entry was, so I’m curious to see what she’s been working on in secret after school.

I’m almost at her table when I feel a tug on the bottom of my skirt. It’s Violet.

“Aunt Nessa,” she says in a sleepy voice. “What are you doing here?”

I bend down and pick her up. She instantly rubs her eyes and puts her head down on my shoulder.

Before I can ask what’s going on, I look up and see Julia coming my way with a diaper bag strapped across her chest and a frustrated look on her face. “Oh good, you found Aunt Vanessa.”

“Where is Alex? I thought he was coming,” I ask her.

“Daddy had to go to emergency, Aunt Nessa,” Violet says, sounding less sleepy.

“What happened?” This I ask of Julia, who is trying to extract Violet from my arms.

After she hitches her on to her hip, she clarifies, “He didn’t
go
to emergency. He
had
an emergency at work. Which makes no sense to me because how the hell does an art gallery have an emergency? It’s a freaking art gallery. Did he run out of paint?” She takes a much-needed breath and then says, “Anyway, he sent me instead. But this one”—she nods to Violet, who is rubbing her eyes again—“was in the middle of a nap, so yeah, it’s been really fun.”

“He didn’t have to call you, but thanks for coming.”

“No problem.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” I say with a laugh.

“So where’s Josie?” She looks around the room and spots Cameron
first. “Oooh, there’s your man.”

“He is not my man, and please don’t you dare make me regret telling my brother that I liked you enough and gave him my stamp of approval before he asked you to marry him.”

“Technically, we did this,” she says and swings Violet around in a semicircle. “Before doing that, so it wouldn’t have mattered what you said to him anyway. So there.”

“Real mature.”

“Ditto.”

We’re both laughing through this, and Violet starts to giggle, that beautiful little noise that only a toddler can make. But once we stop laughing, I say to Julia in a deadpan voice, “Seriously, do not say a word about it.”

She makes a face, and I can’t tell if she’s letting me know she’s not going to say a word about it or if she plans to give a diatribe on the subject to anyone who will listen. “My lips are sealed . . . in protest, but sealed nonetheless.”

“Thank you very—”

The cupcake lady in all her brown-toned, coordinated attire interrupts us, and of course, she’s holding a tray of cupcakes, because why wouldn’t she be?

“You must be Ms. Holt, Josie’s mother,” she says with an air of pompousness.

“Yes, that’s right.” I put on the most fake smile I can muster. “And you are?”

“I’m Christopher’s mother.” She looks past my shoulder to a table where her son is proudly standing with his entry and talking with some of his friends. “That’s him right there.”

“You must be so proud,” Julia chimes in. “His entry looks pretty awesome.”

It really does. From here it looks to be a volcano that goes off, and lava comes pouring down the sides of his homemade mountain.

Cupcake Lady’s judging eyes go up and down Julia with a look of disdain, as if she can’t be bothered. Then she says, “Yes, it is . . . awesome.”

Here we go. I’m waiting for Julia to go off on this woman, but then I remember that Violet is here, so she’s probably seething with rage and biting her tongue. I glance over at Julia, and yeah, she is most definitely dying to say something, but she keeps it in check. Thank God.

Cupcake Lady leans in to say something only to me, catching me off guard. “I heard about things not working out so well with you and Mr. Thomas. Such a shame.” She backs away with an almost evil smile on her face. “Don’t you worry, dear, I’ll make sure he’s well taken care of.”

“Did you just call me ‘dear’? I think only my mother calls me that.”

“Okay, that’s enough, Count Chocula,” Julia says and steps in
between us. “Mind your business and get to steppin’.”

Her face still has that really weird, scary smile on it as she walks away.
We keep our eyes on her, tracking her all the way until she approaches
Cameron with her terrible tasting cupcakes, which he of course refuses.

With a raised eyebrow, I turn to Julia, who looks like she’s ready to kill someone. “Seriously? Get to steppin’? Are we in a TLC music video that I don’t know about?”

“I couldn’t think of anything else to say that didn’t involve me using words that would make me fill up Violet’s swear jar and then some. Sorry.”

“Mommy, I’m tired,” Violet says through a yawn. “And hungry.”

Julia puts her down so she can rifle through the diaper bag for some snacks. Then Julia springs up with a devilish grin on her face. Taking Violet’s hand in hers, she says, “Come with Mommy, let’s go look at the cool things here while I look for snacks, okay?”

When they leave to walk around the gym, I finally spot Josie and make a beeline to her table.

“Hey, sweetie, this looks great!”

It really does and I am so impressed with her. She has this giant white poster board propped up with all these different steps, and at the very end is a small desk fan that is actually blowing out shaved ice over her table in a cascade . . . or snow, which is why her entry is named How to Make Snow.

Before Josie can say a single word, there’s a loud crash to our left, followed by a huge splat, which is then followed by some yelling from Cupcake Lady herself. I close my eyes, because I can only imagine what my sister-in-law just did and would much rather continue imagining it rather than seeing it with my own eyes.

To Josie, I say, “Please tell me that Julia isn’t involved.”

Josie giggles through her answer. “No . . . but Violet is.”

That’s when I open my eyes to see Cupcake Lady’s cupcakes splattered on the ground and her face frozen in horror. Then I see Violet walking toward me, splotches of cupcake icing adorning her once adorable little floral swing top and leggings, with a huge smile on her face, licking each finger clean. She’s holding her mother’s hand, and Julia has a huge smile to match her daughter’s.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Mommy said that she found my snacks underneath the cupcake tray.”

“Now, Violet, I didn’t say to pull the tray from the table though, did I? That would have been silly of Mommy to say.”

Violet looks up to her mother, who brings her finger to her mouth to shush her. “I’m still hungry, Mommy.”

“Baby girl, for that, I’ll take you to Swensen’s right now and let you order the yummiest, most ginormous ice cream sundae that you’ve ever seen.”

And with the biggest squeal of delight I’ve ever heard from Violet, they say their good-byes and head off to plot another takedown, God knows where, but I bet it will be on the news tonight.

“I can’t believe she did that. That woman is nuts.”

“Vanessa.”

That voice and the way he says my name send a thrill down my spine. He’s standing right behind me, so I turn around slowly, not sure of how this is going to go.

“Hello, Mr. Thomas.”

“We’re really back to that, are we?” he asks, with a hint of playfulness in his voice.

Leaning forward, I whisper, “Well, I can’t very well call you Cameron in front of everyone, it would be inappropriate.”

“Guess what?” he whispers right back. “You just did.”

We’re still standing way too close to each other, close enough that I feel the brush of his stubble against my cheek when he leans in and says to me, “You weren’t even going to say hello to me, were you?”

Then he steps back as if remembering where we are and that we aren’t together anymore. As he runs a hand through his hair in frustration, he adds, “Sorry, you don’t have to answer that. I guess I’m still . . . adjusting.” He pushes his eyeglasses up the bridge of his nose again. “But seeing you again is . . .”

“Like a bad dream?” I offer up as a suggestion.

His lips curl up a little in a grin. “No, not at all, Vanessa. I was going to say that seeing you again is like a breath of fresh air.”

“Oh.”

I don’t have anything to say to that and feel like a fool. He still wants me. I thought that might be true but wasn’t totally sure. Inside of me, my stomach does that little flip-flop it does as I imagine what it would be like to be even closer to him, to be able to touch him, to have him inside of me, and
with
me all over again. Instead, I’m just standing here in front of him with nothing to add to this conversation because I can’t bring myself to rectify things between us.

“Well . . . it was really a pleasure to see you again.” He sounds more like his professional teacher persona already and then looks over my shoulder at Josie. “Josie, great job with the snow maker. It’s one of my favorite entries here today.”

“Thanks for helping me with it, Mr. Thomas. It was so cool.”

“You’re welcome,” he says to her, then directs his attention back to me. “Good-bye, Vanessa.”

It’s not until he’s already turning on his heel and his back is to me that I can manage to say good-bye back to him. He doesn’t turn around again, and for the rest of the time that I’m standing there frozen to that spot on the gym floor, he still doesn’t grace me with his dark gaze. But I keep my eyes trained on him as he maneuvers his way through the crowd and stops by each entry, taking the time to introduce himself to the parents and to acknowledge the hard work done by each of his students.

“Earth to Mom, come in, Mom,” Josie says and bumps shoulders with me. “I feel it is my duty as your daughter to tell you that you kind of look pathetic right now.”

“Well, that’s not a very nice thing to say to your own mother.”

She puts her hand on her hip and raises an eyebrow as if to challenge me further. I roll my eyes and say, “Yeah, maybe you’re right. Thanks for the heads-up, kid.”

“He still likes you and asks about you every so often, Mom.”

“Really?”

“Yup. And if I were you, I would totally go for it.”

“Josie, I already told you—”

“Yeah, you did, and I still don’t get it.” She puffs some hair away from her forehead, looking beyond frustrated with me, then mumbles, “Never mind, Mom.”

Well, this whole day has worked out great.

With the exception of the Cupcake Lady getting hers, this day has gone to hell in a handbag really quick. And after the fair, we end up going home and having a bite to eat for dinner—all of this done in almost complete silence, with the exception of a handful of yeahs and nos from Josie, who is now not even talking to me. I go to bed frustrated beyond belief with myself.

I toss and turn for what feels like hours, only the flickering light from the television changing programming against the walls as my companion. At around two o’clock in the morning, I sit up and take my cell phone off the nightstand and contemplate calling Cameron. But what would I say? Would saying sorry and admitting I made a terrible mistake be enough?

Defeated and unsure, I toss the phone on the comforter instead and fall back against the pillows.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

A
re you seriously still not talking to me?” I ask Josie as I drive her to school the next morning.

We’re about to arrive at her school when I lower the volume on the morning talk radio station I was listening to. I found myself getting so exasperated sitting right next to her with not even a word spoken the whole way here.

She doesn’t even acknowledge what I asked her. I look over to her as I’m turning into the drop-off area and catch her watching me and then quickly averting her eyes toward the passenger-side window.

“Josie, I’ve told you before, it’s not a good time for—”

“I heard you the first hundred times, Mom,” she finally blurts out in frustration. “Just drop me off here.”

“Wait a second,” I say to her while she’s already opening the door. “I need to talk to you about this.”

Standing outside of the car, she slams the door shut, and I don’t miss the look on her face that says she has no intention of continuing this conversation.

Angry tapping on my window makes me almost jump right out of
my seat. Turning to look at who it is, I see the same
volunteer parent patroling the drop-off area.

As I lower my window, she says to me in a very annoyed voice, “Lady, you need get to moving, you’re holding up the line.”

Smiling, I say as nicely as possible, “Yes, but I need to talk with my daughter for a moment longer.”

“Move it.”

“Just give me a second,” I say and turn to see Josie already walking away with the throng of students making their way inside the school. “Shit,” I mumble underneath my breath, even more frustrated now because I can barely find Josie’s head in the crowd.

“Lady, if you don’t move this car, I will—”

“You’ll do what, exactly?! You’ll put me in drop-off area jail?!” I put the car in park and get out.

“You cannot leave your car here, ma’am!” she shouts, but I’m already speed walking to catch up to Josie.

I’m shouting out her name when I get to the entrance of the building, and a security guard stops me from coming in. “Please, I just need to talk my daughter for a second. She’s right . . . there!” I spot her staring at me in complete mortification, flanked by Carrie and Lorelei. Waving my arms up in the air, I yell, “Josie!”

She reluctantly starts walking to me, clutching the straps of her backpack and dragging her feet the entire way. “See, here she comes,” I say, smiling to the security guard, who nods then lets Josie through to come back outside to me.

There is still a bunch of kids making their way into the building, so I grab her upper arm and gently move over to the side of the building, where we won’t be in the way of the crowd.

She crosses her arms and keeps her head down. I’m not sure if it’s because she is embarrassed or disinterested. A part of me wants to shake her to make her get over my decision about Cameron, which I obviously won’t do. There is another part of me that
needs
to make her understand that it was the best decision at the time. She doesn’t need to know that I already regret it and wish I could take it back. But it’s too late now. It’s done.

“Listen, Josie,” I say to her calmly. “I’ve gone over this with you already. Maybe I wasn’t clear, so I’ll say it again.”

“Don’t bother, Mom.” Her bright blue eyes peek through her bangs for a second, then she drops her gaze again. “I don’t need you to explain it to me again. I’m not stupid.”

“I never said you were, sweetie.”

“No, you didn’t,” she agrees. “But you also don’t think I don’t know what it is you’re doing all over again.”

“What do you mean, ‘all over again’?”

Picking her head up and meeting my eyes, she says, “You’re using me as an excuse . . . again, and sorry, Mom, but that’s messed up! Because—and this may be hard for you to accept—I don’t need you to do that for me anymore . . . I’m fine! And if I’m not fine, I
will
be fine eventually! So please just stop using me as the excuse, because it’s not me. It’s you!”

Whoa.

I’m speechless, because she’s one hundred percent right. I’ve been using her as my excuse for . . . geez, not just Cameron, but a lot of things in my life. It’s like she’s my go-to crutch when I need her to be. She’s obviously beyond being fed up about it . . . and I don’t blame her one bit.

“I—”

“Can I go now? The bell is about to ring,” she says and looks behind her.

The crowd is almost completely gone by the entrance now, which means that yes, the bell signaling first period is about to go off any second. I don’t say anything to her; I can’t bring myself to yet. So I nod my head, letting her know that yes she can go, and she does, making it in time to cross the threshold as the shrill bell goes off loudly in the background.

Standing there too stunned and disappointed in myself for doing exactly what she said, I mentally catalog all the little things
I’ve ever used Josie as an excuse for, like my nonexistent social life and not pursuing a career in the arts, until reaching the top one on the list to date: Cameron.

Granted, thinking that she needs me to be there for her should be the very first thought of any parent, but this goes well beyond that. Because deep down, I know that it has nothing to do with worrying about being there for her, or making it look like I’m a responsible person to her, or making sure that she’s well taken care of . . . all of those are a given where our relationship is concerned. When I dig down even deeper, I realize it’s my fear of dating again and possibly being hurt that makes me use Josie as a cop-out.

Okay, get yourself together, Vanessa
, I think to myself as I slowly come to terms with this. Eventually the fog lifts from my brain, and I start to walk back to my car with my head down, avoiding the inquisitive eyes of a handful of students who are still milling around the entrance. But my car isn’t there. I look up and down the drop-off area just in time to catch a glimpse of a tow truck pulling my car down the main road and onto the highway.

“Wait! That’s my car!” I yell.

I start to run but then stop when I know that there is no way I’m going to catch up to it. That’s when I realize just how screwed I am, because in that car is my purse, which has my cell phone in it to call someone to pick me up.

“I told you not to park there, lady.” This comes from behind me.

Without turning around, I already know it’s the volunteer parent who mans the drop-off area having a serious gloating moment.

Great, just great. Now I’m going to have to eat crow, big-time.

I turn around slowly, and with the biggest smile I can possibly come up with, I ask, “Can I borrow your phone, please?”