Page 31 of Playboy’s Purgatory

I’m not going to let it matter to me one way or the other.

Sure, keep telling yourself lies.

“He also told her,” the way her voice trills with excitement sets my teeth on edge, “that he wanted you the moment he saw you even though he treated you horribly out of some twisted sense of obligation.”

“No, he didn’t,” I blurt out the denial before I can stop myself.

Opal purses her lips together. “I had a front row seat to the whole scene. If only I had some popcorn,” her tone turns wistful.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, are you going to open the letter that poor boy poured his heart into or not?” Lorraine poses it as a question, but it sounds more like a demand. She mutters under her breath, clearly agitated, “In my day, letters meant something. It was an art and it was respected. People don’t understand how special it is these days. I’m liable to wake up one day and find the entire postal service closed down as if it isn’t a national institution worthy of respect.”

“Poor boy?” I shoot her a bewildered expression, knowing she said a whole lot more but only able to latch onto one thing.

She gives me a droll look and looks back at the envelope. Waiting.

With a heavy sigh, I open the envelope and pull out the paper inside. Then I can’t look away.

Lara,

I’m sorry for the horrible way I treated you. I should have never listened to a viper, but I did. I can’t erase it, but I can apologize for it and try to make it right.

I’ll be honest, I’m not entirely sure how to do that. Where do you even start in this kind of situation?

First, I owe you an explanation.

My mother was a club whore. She only wanted to trap a patched member; the one she happened to get pregnant by was my dad. Dad never claimed her and she never got a patch.

I don’t think that getting a patch would have changed the outcome all that much, unfortunately. She had her own issues, and she was more interested in getting high than being a mother. I never knew her but heard plenty of stories. There weren’t many that were complimentary.

While I was growing up in the club, I saw the way club whores were treated. Not bad, necessarily. They’re safe and they make the choice to be here. Still, they weren’t Old Ladies. The more I watched, the more I wondered what kind of person my mother was; if she was a victim of circumstances or if circumstances made her a victim to both her choices and her addiction.

I’m starting to figure out that I might never answer those questions about her.

Maybe that’s okay? I’m not really sure.

I’m not telling you this to gain your sympathy. I just need you to know there is a reason behind me wanting to believe Lola and her manipulations.

I might not have known her, but I got an impression of my mother from all the stories. When I met Lola, she reminded me of my mother. Because of that, I never touched Lola.

It wasn’t a fair comparison, to either person, but I’m screwed up and trying my best. I didn’t see it then, but I’m starting to see it now. Too little, too late definitely comes to mind.

But I’m trying here.

Maybe that’s not enough. It probably shouldn’t be, honestly.

I’m just hoping maybe your heart can soften just a little for me with my whole sad roots story.

It has screwed me up for a long time.

That does not make my behavior or my words okay. They weren’t. I was cruel. I was mean. I tried to always find the softest place to land the hit.

I’m sorry I allowed my past to blind me. The worst part is I’m not sure I was blind the entire time. Because I didn’t just take everything that she said as gospel. I watched you and the way people interacted with you, turning toward you like you are sunlight incarnate.

Then I twisted what I saw with my own eyes to fit the narrative which was easiest for me to swallow. Because I wanted to. I didn’t want to think too hard or ask too many questions.

That’s on me.

I felt like I owed something to Lola. To my mom, really.