Lost in Paris Elizabeth Thompson (romantic story to read .TXT) 📖

“Okay. Whatever. I don’t care.”

I turn away from her and take out bread for toast. I’m not hungry, but I need something to do.

“Maybe I’m saying it wrong,” Marla says. “She wasn’t exactly Jesse’s girlfriend, but he had been seeing someone and he’d really fallen for her. It’s someone you know, as a matter of fact. He had feelings for her, but she didn’t feel the same. He was crushed and he needed someone to talk to. So, yes, I was at his apartment last night, and we stayed up talking until five a.m., but then we fell asleep on the couch. With our clothes on.”

My mother stays out all night and the next morning she’s trying to justify it like a teenager attempting to convince a parent there were no boys at the sleepover. I have no idea if what she’s saying is true. I don’t care. Well, I do, but I don’t want to.

I push two slices of bread into the toaster. “I know her? This woman who supposedly crushed Jesse’s soul?”

Marla lifts her chin again, smiling as if daring me to speculate.

I know I’m playing right into her hand, but I ask, “Who is it?”

She nods, and her eyes sparkle as she leans forward, resting her chin on her fist. “Guess.”

“I’m not going to guess. Maybe you shouldn’t tell me. It might betray a confidence.”

Marla blows on her coffee and slurps it. “I wouldn’t have brought it up if Jesse had asked me not to tell anyone. Since I’m your mother, don’t you think he knows you’re the first person I’d tell?”

“You’re giving him a lot of credit. He’s gorgeous, but I don’t know that he thinks that deeply about things like this.”

“You’re wrong. That’s your problem, Hannah. You can be so judgmental. You form conclusions about people and then you brand them. No one’s allowed to make a mistake because in Miss Perfect’s eyes, they’ll carry that stigma forever.”

I cross my arms. “I’ve never claimed to be perfect. That’s pretty harsh.”

“No worse than you branding me an alcoholic tramp for the rest of my life when I’m working hard to change.”

And so goes the endless loop of illogic that is an argument with my mother.

I shake my head.

“At the risk of sounding judgmental, that’s the mother I’ve known all my life. You show up unannounced and you stay out all night. It’s optics, Marla. That’s what I see. It’s the only you I’ve ever known.”

“That’s what Gram made you see.”

“Leave Gram out of this. She and Granny Ivy were all I had. You were off doing your own thing, living your own life. Do not blame Gram.”

“I know Gram was good to you, but there’s more to the story than you know.”

“Stop. Okay? Just stop.”

I want to put my hands over my ears.

If she starts talking smack about my grandmother, I will get her bags and put them out on the curb. Gram was the only mother figure I had when I was growing up. Our life in Orlando may have been boring by Marla’s standards, but at least Gram was there for me. Not only did she put a roof over my head and food in my belly, but she also taught me to love literature. She sent me to college. She raised me with values.

Oh God, listen to me.

I guess I do sound judgmental.

But I’m not a bitch.

Judgmental bitches have no problem confronting people. I relegate the raging to the privacy of my mind.

Because when you speak your mind, people like Marla brand you judgmental. Full circle.

“I’m sorry, Hannah. I know Gram is off-limits. Even though she and I had our differences, I respect that she was good to you.”

I shrug.

We sit in silence for a moment.

As I sip my coffee, I ponder how Gram was so tender and warm toward me but so cold toward her own daughter. Marla was hard to love. She was a challenge. I witnessed that with my own eyes, but I can’t reconcile the grandmother I knew with the mother Marla claims to have known.

I don’t want to dissect the one safe spot of my childhood right now. Contrary to Marla’s dig, nobody’s perfect. I’m sure Gram had her flaws. But I don’t want Marla to smash Gram’s clay feet.

Marla’s surprise appearance, the did-she-or-didn’t-she question of her night with Jesse, and the Paris apartment that we need to sort out together—it’s all too much.

“Do you want to call Jesse and ask him about last night?” Marla’s inane suggestion pulls me out of my thoughts.

“No. I don’t want to talk to Jesse.”

“Then you believe me?”

“Okay, fine. Whatever.”

I really don’t care.

“So then guess who broke Jesse’s heart.” She leans forward, her brows arched. “I’ll give you a clue. You see her every day.”

At this point, the guessing game seems the best way back to stable ground.

“I can’t think of anyone else I see every day other than Cressida or Tallulah.”

Marla’s eyes light up and she purses her lips. “You’ve narrowed it down nicely.”

Tallulah had a fling with Jesse last year. It was one-sided on her part. She thought she could change him and wanted it to be more than it was. The tighter she hung on, the more he pulled away. Eventually, everything imploded. She was wrecked over it. I can’t imagine Jesse suddenly doing an about-face….

My mind flashes back to a night when we were at the Bull and Thorn pub and Cressida and Jesse seemed extra chummy. He was teaching her to throw darts. He had his arms around her and was helping her aim. At the time, I didn’t think anything of it.

“Is it Cressida?”

Marla’s face lights up like Camden High Street at Christmas. “I will neither confirm nor deny that.”

“Why? I thought you said you weren’t betraying Jesse’s confidence.”

“Yeah, but I’m realizing that I don’t know how Cressida would feel about me telling you. She’s been so nice to me. I don’t want to make her mad. I don’t want