Page 1 of Do It With Me

1

ELLORA

Tomato soup dripped down the front of my nicest blouse, the red blooming from my chest to my stomach like I’d been shot.

In retrospect, I probably should’ve changed after I’d served Mom’s dinner, but I was running late. I’d chosen my white silk blouse for my first day of class, hoping to impress my professor by at least looking the part of a put-together businesswoman.

Instead, it seemed I’d tempted fate just a little too much. My reward was looking like I’d taken a flying dive into a plate of spaghetti, tits first.

Not a great way to make a first impression.

Mom had bumped into me when I’d been carrying her dinner to the table and now we stood in the kitchen in our new apartment, me dripping like a percolator and her twisting her hands in front of her like she was trying to wring the guilt out of them.

As she looked up me, lips parted in shock, her brow furrowed. A pleading look crossed the bright green eyes I’d inherited from her. “Please don’t tell my daughter,” she whispered, voice thinner than the stained silk clinging to me.

I am your daughter.

The words jumped to the tip of my tongue, but I didn’t correct her. I’d learned it was better not to. When she got confused, arguing only made her upset, which would lead to both of us ending up in tears, and I didn’t have time to reapply mascara and change my shirt before my first lecture.

“Your secret is safe with me,” I said instead, smiling in an attempt to assuage her obvious guilt. “As long as you sit down and eat what’s left of that soup.”

She brightened, visibly relieved, and complied, lowering herself into the chair and lifting her spoon like it was made of glass. “I just don’t want her to worry about me.”

My heart clenched at how soft and uncertain her voice sounded, but I couldn’t let it show, so I dialed up my smile another few megawatts. “I’m sure your daughter is just fine.”

I didn’t look her in the eyes when I said it. The lie tasted bitter on my tongue, but pretending gave her peace. It was the best I could do for her.

Her gaze drifted down to my chest. A soft moan came out of her as she surveyed the damage. “Your clothes are ruined.”

“It’s just a blouse,” I said lightly. “I have a spare shirt.”

I didn’t. Not really.

Most of my wardrobe was still buried in boxes and the only “spare” shirt I could think of was the ratty tee I slept in sometimes, but she didn’t need to know that. We’d only been in the new place two days and I desperately wanted it to feel like a fresh start for both of us.

When Mom’s memory lapses got real, I brought her to New York so I could take care of her. The Chicago winters weren’t helping much and there was no way I could relocate since the store I owned was right here, on the upper east side of Manhattan.

Neither of us were settled in yet though, but we would be. Soon.

We had to be. All I had to do was find a clean top, fix my hair, and maybe pretend my life wasn’t falling apart in about twelve different ways.

Easy. Totally easy.

I stayed in the kitchen for another minute, watching from the other side of our little breakfast nook as she gently sipped soup from the spoon. Once I was satisfied that the upset from the incident had begun to fade, I finally darted down the short hallway to my bedroom.

The apartment I’d rented for us wasn’t huge, but it was comfortable enough for just us two. We had a living area with large windows that let in plenty of natural light, a kitchen with enough counter space for us to do some cooking together when she was feeling up to it, and we each had our own bedroom and bathroom.

Dodging moving boxes, framed photographs, and art still bubble-wrapped on the floor, I successfully navigated the maze to my bedroom. I’d set aside the blouse and skirt specifically for tonight’s class. Without this outfit, I was a little lost about what I could wear. The only thing I knew for sure was that it would not help to impress my professor.

After digging through a few boxes, the best I could do was a mildly rumpled T-shirt featuring a cartoon frog giving two thumbs up and with the words, No worries, baby emblazoned underneath.

If only that were true.

I tugged at the hem, debating whether irony counted as style, then scooped my bag off the bed and went back to the kitchen to grab my keys. Mom looked up from her soup, her spoon halfway to her mouth when she saw me. “Are we going to the beach today?”

“No, not today. It’s too late already,” I said gently. “I’m going to my night class.”

“Oh.” She blinked, seeming a little puzzled. “Tomorrow then?”