I don’t hear the rest of what she says because I’m too fixated on the kids part. After having seen Ebba this weekend, my mom’s casual statement feels like a stab to the heart. Ishouldbe a dad already.
When I finally tune back into what she’s saying, she says, “Anyway, I just want you to be happy. That’s all.”
“I am happy,” I sigh.
“Well, that’s good,” she says, but her tone tells me she doesn’t believe me. “I’ll let you go. Love you.”
“Love you, too, Mom.”
I hang up and lay my phone on the counter. I itch to pick it back up and text Ebba. I haven’t texted her in years, so for all I know she has me blocked.
“Don’t do it,” I tell myself, my voice echoing around my empty apartment. I stare at the device for a moment longer before I swipe it up and say, “Fuck it.”
Me: Did you make it in okay?
I stare the text message hoping I don’t sound like a total idiot. I can just imagine her rolling her eyes at it and thinking about how pathetic I am.
I wait five, then ten minutes, for a response before I give up hope and head to shower.
Climbing in bed, I decide she must have my number blocked and I can’t say I blame her.
But just as I’m about to drift off, my phone vibrates on my nightstand. I reach over faster than I’ve probably ever grabbedmy phone and shock has my heart stopping and restarting when I see her name on the screen.
Ebba: There was a delay, but I just got home. Thanks for checking.
I smile to myself. It’s a simple response, but it’ssomethingand that means everything to me.
Me: Good. Glad you’re in safe.
She sends a thumbs up in response and I plug my phone back into the charger.
A goofy smile dons my lips as I drift off to sleep.
CHAPTER 8
EBBA
I finish filmingmy makeup tutorial and sigh now that I’m no longer being recorded. I mostly stick to fashion and travel content, but my followers have been asking for a makeup tutorial from the look I wore earlier this year at the U.S. Open, so I decided it was time to recreate it, especially while I’m not traveling since I don’t have as much of my usual content to share. I save the video to edit later. I’ve thought about hiring someone to edit my content, but the idea of letting go of control makes me sick to my stomach. Maybe one day I’ll be able to let go, but now’s not the time.
There’s a loud knock on my door and my brows furrow in confusion. I haven’t ordered dinner, and I don’t have anyone coming over that I know of.
Wincing when I stand, I give myself a moment to let the blood flow return to my leg. Sitting for extended periods of times has been triggering my leg to flare with pain.
Blowing out a breath, I grab my cane to help steady my gait as I make my way out of the guest bedroom that I’ve turned into a massive walk-in closet and filming room. Another knock sounds, much more impatient than the last one.
When I check the peephole, I find my brother standing on the other side with a bag of food and a grin.
“What are you doing here?” I swing the door wide. “Did Whimsy finally get some common sense and kick you to the curb?”
He rolls his eyes as he strides past me and straight for my open concept kitchen.
“No.” He unloads the Chipotle bag. “She’s at her parents and I couldn’t go because I had a podcast interview, so now you get the joy of my companionship.”
I let out a sigh, and he doesn’t miss it from the pursed lipped look he sends me.
“Don’t act like you don’t appreciate my presence.” He opens up my refrigerator and helps himself to a Fanta.
“Put that back,” I scold. “Those are my guilty pleasure and I only have a few.”