Foes & Cons

want to interject that I haven’t even told her anything about senior year as my heart stutters, then plummets.
“We’ll talk soon, okay, sweetie? Love you, ciao!”
And with that, the line goes dead.
“God dammit,” I say to the empty bathroom.
She got me again. I was strong, my heart was steel, and then she got past my defenses. I crumbled like a fool, and it made me feel even more shame than I had going into the conversation. It’s unnatural for a child not to crave their mother’s love. But it’s even more unnatural for a mother not to want to know every intimate detail about their child. Or at least that’s how I thought about it.
Maybe that’s why I still harbor this lingering affection for Sawyer in my heart. Because for as badly as he hurt me, as much as he taunted me and made a mockery of me to all of our peers, I still hold this tiny flame of hope inside that we’ll mend our friendship.
My mother conditioned me to be a punching bag, to see or hope for the best in people, even when they downright don’t deserve it. But she also conditioned me to, at the same time, be guarded and wary of everyone around me, even if they’ve never shown me an ounce of malice. The effect is dizzying.
One thing is for certain, though. I am always going to keep allowing these people to hurt me, unless I once and for all make peace that I don’t need their validation and love in my life.

10


Blair
The other bad thing about hating the guy who used to be like family?
That his family still kind of is your surrogate family.
I walk the hallway of the Roarke home to their dining room, a walk I’ve done about a hundred thousand times in my life. This home is as about as familiar as mine; I know every picture on the wall, every secret spot for childhood games of hide and seek, and all of the creaky stairs leading up to the second floor.
I’m also extremely close with the woman who put this house together, and the reason why I’m here today.
Mallory Roarke is like the mother I never had. While my dad gives me enough love and support for two parents, there are still things he just isn’t equipped to handle.
Like the time my boobs seemingly grew in overnight in sixth grade, and my nipples began to show through my shirts. Mallory was the one who took me to the mall and helped me shop for my first bra.
Or the time I got my period for the first time, the morning of seventh grade picture day. I was freaking out so much about putting a tampon in, until Mallory came over and showed me exactly how to do it.
Over the years, she has been my trusted source on all things female, and helped in the area Dad never could: boys and broken hearts. My father handled the birds and the bees talk, somewhat awkwardly, but Sawyer’s mom had been the one to talk about emotional connection. About respecting my body and my heart when I chose to fall in love.
If only she knew that I was basically head over heels for her son … but that wasn’t something I was ever going to disclose.
And thankfully, she hasn’t let our bond diminish since Sawyer and I had our falling out. She also hasn’t pressed for the details or tried to make me forgive or apologize to her son. That just proves how much she cares about me; she’s willing to piss off her own child to keep a relationship with a girl who isn’t her own blood.
So it was no question that Dad and I would be invited to her small birthday celebration the weekend after Sawyer allegedly punched Matt during their lunch period. And as much as I loathe her son, I would never not show up for Mallory. She’s always shown up for me. Plus, Dad is their closest friend, it would be strange if he didn’t attend.
Which is how I find myself on my enemy’s home turf, literally, about to sit down to enjoy dessert while he glares at me across the table.
“Blair, can you help me get the serving utensils?” Sawyer’s mom asks, smiling warmly at me.
I’d never say no to her. “Of course.”
I follow her into their cozy kitchen, the one that Thomas custom built for his wife. It has the stone walls she wanted all those years ago when he designed the house, and they always remind me of some quaint Tuscan villa. The counters are dotted with miniature pig figurines, collector items that Mallory’s husband and son have brought home for her throughout the years.
“You look so grown up, I still can’t believe it.” She shakes her head at me, ducking her eyes as if she’s seeing something unreal before them.
I shrug. “Still just the same old boring me.”
“Blair Oden, there is nothing boring about you.” She clucks, pulling silver spoons and pie-servers out of a drawer.
Mallory is obsessed with pies, they’re her favorite thing in the world. For her birthday, her husband went to her favorite bakery and bought six different pies … and there are only ten people total here. It’s Dad and me, the three Roarkes, another couple that our parents went to college with, Krista and Dean, and then Mallory’s two sisters and her one friend from work. And because Sawyer and I are the only people under the age of forty, we’re seated across from each other. Where he has promptly glowered at me the entire meal.
I open another drawer, ready to get some chafing dishes for the pies to be put on when they’re brought to the table. And stumbled upon thick sheets of designer paper, etchings done in pencil covering them all.
My mouth falls open as I study them, and Sawyer’s mom must say something to me, because I don’t answer and then I feel her