“Scarlett, come onnnnn,” the girls whine in near unison.
Closing my book, I head on in to intervene. If Scarlett tells them no, she’ll incinerate into a pile of humiliated ash and forever be labeled “lame” by her peers.
“Hey, girls.” I offer a soothing smile. “It’s getting a little late, and Scarlett and I have a breakfast date with her mom in the morning.”
Katie and Mackenzie exchange looks before sliding off the bed.
“Maybe you can see each other again tomorrow for a bit?” I walk them to the door and wait as they shuffle and slide into their respective flip-flops and sandals. “We’ll be in town until Sunday afternoon.”
“Yeah, we should hang out again before I go,” Scarlett pipes up.
Katie shrugs.
Mackenzie checks her phone before nudging Katie and whispering something under her breath—probably related to that party.
“Bye, Scarlett,” Katie says as she gets the door.
Mackenzie gives a parting wave.
Neither seems enthused about hanging out with her again. Girls that age can be so fickle and opportunistic. I get the sense that perhaps Scarlett’s return has already lost its novelty and they’d rather keep their Saturday-night options open.
“Thanks for coming, girls,” I say when I show them out. Biting my tongue, I resist the urge to tell them to make good choices. I don’t need to embarrass Scarlett any further.
The heavy door shuts with a slam just as the hotel AC kicks on.
“I know it feels like you’re missing out on—” I begin to say to Scarlett. But before I can finish my words of wisdom, she flicks the bedside lamp off, climbs under the covers, and rolls over.
All right, then.
Grabbing my pajamas, I wash up for bed before doing the same, taking a moment to send a photo of a sleeping Scarlett to her uncle. Something tells me it’ll help him rest a little easier tonight.
My stomach is clenched as we walk through the door of Joe’s Café Saturday morning. I’m almost afraid to scan the little diner for Lexi’s face, because every part of me expects her to be MIA. Only my fears are squashed the instant Scarlett squeals and dashes toward a corner booth where Lexi is waiting, bright eyed and grinning. Hopping up, Lexi greets her daughter with a bear hug before motioning for me to join them.
Sliding into the booth, I slip my purse down my shoulder and marvel at the way the two of them act like nothing happened last night. Lexi’s hair is still shower damp, her clothes smell like they’re fresh out of a dryer, and her lips shine with a coat of lip balm.
“I just can’t get over how grown you look.” Lexi fawns over Scarlett, playing with her hair.
Scarlett pretends to be annoyed, rolling her eyes despite the beaming smile overtaking her mouth.
“Whatever, Mama,” she says. “It’s only been four months. You act like it’s been years.”
“Are you hungry?” Lexi changes the subject before reaching for a couple of menus from behind the napkin rack. She hands one to Scarlett and the other to me. “They’ve got the best blueberry pancakes. Remember those, baby? They were your favorite.”
“Actually, it was the chocolate chip,” Scarlett says.
Lexi chuckles, splaying a hand over her thin décolletage. “Oh my goodness. You’re right. How could I have mixed those up?”
“It’s okay, Mama.” Scarlett rests her head on Lexi’s shoulder for a moment. Side by side, it’d be easy to mistake these two for sisters. Same big blue eyes, same pointed chin, same expressive eyebrows.
A purple-haired waitress with a stained smock ambles up to our table, pulling a pen from behind her ear as she mutters a half-hearted “Good morning, ladies.”
Scarlett orders an orange juice, I request a carafe of coffee, and Lexi gets a Diet Mountain Dew—no ice.
“So how do you know West?” Lexi directs her attention to me. “I don’t think I asked.”
“I used to work for him,” I say.
“Ah. Makes sense.” She chuckles. “I thought maybe you were a girlfriend or something, but you definitely don’t seem like his type.”
I get the impression she’s more honest than catty, that she doesn’t mean any offense. But once a journalist, always a journalist, so I can’t help but use the opportunity to ask a few questions.
“The feeling’s more than mutual,” I say with a wink. West would totally be my type—if my type were the beastly prince from “Beauty and the Beast.” “What is his type anyway? I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen him with anyone.”
Lexi rolls her eyes, waving her wrist. “Oh, you know. Exotic supermodels. Socialites. Heiresses. The kind of women he doesn’t actually have to have a conversation with because they’re content just to dangle from his arm like an overpriced accessory. The man’s got insane standards. Nothing’s ever good enough. Hell, no one’s ever good enough. It’s why he can’t keep anyone around more than a few months at a time.”