I stare at the phone, my nerves shot.

I’ve been at a standstill for the last ten minutes, my finger hovering over the call button.

Just fucking do it.

I massage my brow as I press call, and with each ring, the need to throw up grows stronger and stronger until . . .

“Hello?”

Fuck, this was a mistake, a giant mistake. What the hell was I thinking?

“Hello?” That voice, raspy and full of unwanted memories. It rolls my stomach, twists and turns it, and not in a good way.

I should hang up. Just lower the phone and press the end button . . .

“Hello? Alec?”

Fuck.

Clearing my throat, I hold the phone closer to my ear and say, “Hey, Mom.”

“Alec,” she says, her voice neutral. “You’re calling.”

This won’t be an awkward phone call at all.

“Yeah.” I nod, even though she can’t see me.

“Are Thad and Naomi okay?”

“They’re okay.”

And that’s it. No, Are you okay? How’s life? Haven’t talked to you in a while. Then again, I’m the one who called her and can’t seem to find any words.

Since talking with Luna last night, I’ve had an overwhelming urge to reach out to my mom. If I truly want to be happy, I need to patch up the holes in my life, one of which is my relationship with my mother. I thought calling her was the first step, but if calling her is this difficult, how is it going to feel when I actually have to see her in person?

“Well, if everything is okay . . .”

Shit. Say something before she hangs up.

“Uh, would you want to maybe see me . . . on Saturday?” I swallow hard. “Thad told you about the show, right?”

“Yes,” she says, sounding confused. I don’t blame her. I can’t honestly say when we last talked, let alone saw each other in person. “It’s very nice that you’re helping him. He told me you made a wonderful cake.”

Of course he did.

“It was a good challenge,” I say, sounding like a robot. “Uh, so we’re allowed to invite a guest if we want, for the next episode. Thought it would be fun to surprise Thad.”

“Oh yes, he would enjoy that. I haven’t seen him or Naomi in quite some time . . . or you, for that matter.”

“I know.” I sigh, picturing her disapproving gaze. “I’m, uh . . . I’m sorry. I kind of got caught up in other things.”

“You don’t need to explain yourself, Alec.”

But I do. Maybe not over the phone, though.

Moving past the elephant in the room, I ask, “So, do you think you can make it on Saturday? I can text you all the information.”

“Yes, I don’t have anything going on. I can be there.”

“Okay, cool. Thanks . . . Mom.”

“Of course. Anything for Thad.”

Yup. Anything for Thad.

I squeeze my eyes shut as guilt washes over me. Guilt for staying away for so long, for not thinking my family was important enough to keep in my life, for wasting so much time that could have been spent with them.

She sniffs. “Well, okay then,” she says, voice shaky. “I’ll see you Saturday, Alec.”

“See you Saturday,” I reply and then hang up. I toss my phone on the couch, run both hands through my hair, and let out a sigh of relief. The easy part is done—now to worry about Saturday and how I’m going to explain to my mom why I’ve been absent all these years and why I want to change that, be a part of everyone’s lives now.

I’ve had sporadic visits with her since college, which dwindled as time went on and eventually turned into only holidays, and then not even that. I honestly can’t remember the last time I saw her, and I certainly can’t remember the last time she was sober and not abusing prescription drugs. And when she’s in those manic moods, lost to pills and vodka, she says mean, spiteful things.

Things like, You’re just like your father.

Your heart is just as black as his.

You never cared about me or your brother.

You know, the good stuff that really cuts to a son’s heart.

My parents’ relationship was tumultuous. Dad was addicted to making money, to investing and spending hours upon hours on Wall Street, wining and dining the next biggest client. When he would finally come home, if he decided to come home that night, Mom would get on his case about never paying attention to her—mind you, never said anything about the kids—and then they would lose it. Throwing things, calling each other names. It was in those moments that I would take Thad away, cover his ears, and protect him from the storm of hate brewing through our house.

Dad would leave for the night to do God knows what, never once caring that he had two sons, and Mom would draw herself a bath and drown herself in alcohol and pills until she was numb, leaving me with Thad.

The shitty part of it all: I felt bad for my mom, even though she couldn’t get it together and be there for Thad and me. I still feel for her, but I also have so much resentment toward her. She could have left sooner, she could have taken care of us, she could have loved us . . . but she chose not to.

Scrubbing my hands over my face, I stand from the couch. I head to the bathroom and switch on the shower. Not sure when Luna is going to come over, or if she’s going to come over at all, but at least I can be ready if she does, and I need to wash away the nerves from that conversation.

Once again, I find myself staring down at my phone, but for an entirely different reason. It’s nine o’clock, and there’s no sign of Luna.

No texts.

No calls.

No knock on my door.

I’ve thought of texting her at least a dozen times, asking if she was coming over, but I didn’t want to pressure her. I already knew my ask last night was a big one—keeping things quiet for the sake of Thad and our growing relationship. I’d like to think he would be mature about everything, but knowing him, he would think I was in cahoots with Luna and jeopardizing his chances at winning and providing a new life for his family.

I flip through the channels on my TV mindlessly, wondering why I even pay for cable in the first place.

Frustrated, I turn the TV off before tossing the remote to the side with my phone and leaning back into the couch. Maybe I should just go to bed. Or read a book. Do a word search. Plan for Saturday’s challenge, despite knowing nothing about centerpieces; at least it would get my mind off— Knock. Knock.

I fly off the couch before I can even register what’s happening, practically salivating like one of Pavlov’s dogs. I peek through the peephole, and standing on the other side is a very nervous-looking Luna.

I whip the door open, and without a word, she ducks under my arm to enter. Like every other time she’s been to my apartment, she slips off her shoes and then walks over to the couch, where she takes a seat.

Fuck. This is even more nerve racking than talking to my mom on the phone.

I have a feeling I’m not going to like what she has to say.

With a defeated sigh, I shut the door and take a seat across from her. She’s resting her chin on her fist and staring off toward my kitchen, a crease in her brow.

I want to ask her what’s wrong, if there is anything I can do to make it better, but my tongue freezes. For what has to be the first time in my life, I don’t have anything to say. Instead, we both sit there. I stare at her; she stares at the kitchen.

Silent.

After what feels like hours, she asks, “What do you have planned for this weekend?”

Okay, wasn’t expecting that. But from the defensive way she’s holding herself, I’m going to guess she doesn’t want to talk about what she’s really here for . . . Are we going to call it quits?

I clear my throat and shift on the couch. “Uh, you mean . . . for the centerpieces?”

“Yeah. What were you planning on making?”

I scratch my jaw. “Wasn’t really thinking about that. Probably some feather thing.”

“You should probably go into it with a plan. You want to be prepared, Alec. That’s how this works: you prepare yourself for every challenge. If you truly want a chance at winning, you should start drawing up images or at least googling centerpieces with feathers. I saw a blog the other day about dipping feathers in glitter to give them a little bit of that boho look, and I know Vicki and Amanda are doing that, but it wouldn’t hurt to bounce some of their ideas off to Thad. Although he might freak out if—”

“Hey.” I rest my hand on her thigh. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing, I just thought you should be prepared—that’s all. What are you even planning on doing Saturday? Just showing up? Are you bringing anyone to the taping? We don’t have anyone to bring, but I didn’t know if—”

“Slow down. You’re rambling.”

“I’m nervous. Okay.” She presses her hand to her forehead. “I’m nervous, and I almost didn’t come tonight, but I hated the thought of not seeing you, so . . . tell me something. Tell me anything about Saturday. Take my mind off all the emotions whirring through my head.”

She’s freaking out a bit. I can see it in the wildness of her eyes, how they’re darting all over the room. She needs a distraction, and I have the perfect one for her.