Mess To Be Made

32

I scraped my fork purposefully along the bottom of my plate. The painful screeching noise made a few of the guests sitting at nearby tables glance our way.

"Allison," my mom cautioned quietly from the chair next to me.

I raised my eyes from my practically untouched Caesar salad to her calculated brown orbs. Keeping her gaze, I dropped my fork, high enough where the clattering sound of metal meeting ceramic echoed throughout the Italian restaurant.

Her eyes only darkened, perfectly complementing her growing frown. I smiled wickedly at her.

"So, Al Pal," Dad said from across the table, either completely—or acting completely—oblivious. "How're classes going?"

I glanced at him for a half a second as he took a large bite of his shrimp pasta. I hadn't been able to look in his direction for extended periods of time—extended meaning more than two seconds. It made me too nauseous.

On our way to pick him up from the airport, my mother told me that she would tell Dad about her affair when his current project was finished and he came home—a little under a month from now.

"That's too long," I ground out.

"Well, I'm not telling him this weekend and I'm not telling him while he's in DC," she insisted, her voice riddled with emotion. Not that I cared.

"That's too long," I repeated.

"It's not entirely up to you," she said, her tone a tad harsher. "I have to be the one to tell him. And I'm not doing it this weekend. And I'm not doing it while he's not home. So it will be then."

"I don't agree with this," I stated. She opened her mouth, but I was faster. "And I hate you for making me do this."

Her lips slammed shut as she looked over at me from the driver's seat for a moment. "I'm sorry."

This was the first time I'd heard her apologize. "Well, isn't that refreshing."

She growled in the back of her throat and I rolled my eyes at how ridiculous she was being, thinking she had the right to be pissed off.

We remained silent until we began pulling into the Arrivals area of the airport when she said, "You'll let me be the one to tell him, right?"

I glared at her and a fire burned in my stomach. I wanted to tell her to fuck off. Instead, I warned her. "You have until the end of the first day he gets home from DC. After that, I'm telling him everything."

She nodded curtly and I noticed the sadness in her eyes as she watched me. I guess it hurts to see your daughter hate you.

"It's over, right?" I grumbled as she pulled up to the Arrivals curb. Dad wasn't in sight yet.

"I told you it was."

"I'm not asking about what you said before," I snapped and gave her a harsh glare. Frankly, I had yet to believe anything that came out of her mouth. I still kept wanting to ask though, hoping I might again see in her the true, honorable Mimi Carson I used to know as my loving mom when she assured me that yes. It was over.

"It's over, Allie."

I analyzed her face. Her gorgeous blonde hair was curled, her brown eyes bright and ringed with liner and mascara. The bags under the rims were noticeable now though. The creases along her hairline and at the corners of her lips were spidering.

She seemed genuine in her response. Truly. Yet I still didn't see my mom. Her answer didn't restore my faith in her like I kept hoping it would. And watching her fake it with my dad the rest of the day—smile at him, kiss him, hold his hand. Help him with his bags. Ask him about his life. Everything little thing felt disgusting and fake and fraudulent.