I crash for a few hours but wake up unsettled. I put on a sweatshirt and step onto the balcony, notebook in hand. The second I look down at the courtyard below, blocked off for privacy, I tip my face to the sky.

“Fucking kidding me.”

Turning right around, I walk back in, shut the door, and erase the fountain from my memory.

I retreat to the oversized sofa. It takes ten minutes of tapping the pen on the page before I throw it across the room.

Goddamn.

Giving up, I sprawl out on my back with my phone, replying to Christian’s text and another. Then I scroll down, down, down. My thoughts keep drifting in this direction, so I might as well.

I go through the same mental gymnastics as every time I call, a hollowness inside me when she answers.

“Hey, Mama.” The last bit of Texas lingering in me slips out at the end. No matter how long it has been since the rest of my accent faded, that one word holds on for dear life.

“Foster, baby,” she says softly. “I’ve been thinking about you.”

“You should have called.” I’m rolling my eyes at her response before it comes through the speaker.

“Well … you know how it is.”

My eyes close, the bite beneath my skin still there after all this time. “Yeah. Are you good? Taking care of yourself?”

“We’ve been good. Your brother decided to not come home for the holidays⁠—”

“Please don’t call him that,” I sigh out. I can’t stand when she talks about his family like she’s a part of it. But I gave up trying to change it. Change her. All I can do is ask she not force me into the dysfunction.

“Right,” she almost whispers. “Landon’s staying at school for Thanksgiving, possibly Christmas. Your daddy and Rose aren’t too happy about it. He’s been distancing himself lately. It hurts your daddy to see it. I wish I could do more.”

I silently snort, looking at the decorative swirls on the ceiling. “I think you’ve done plenty.” I leave off that the fucker deserves the pain.

Cheers to the kid. Might be hope for him yet.

“Tell me how your music thing is going. I hear you’ve been busy.”

Music thing. My hobby, as far as she’s concerned. “It’s going well, Mama. We’re back on tour, writing our next album, filming a documentary our record label set up.”

“Sounds wonderful, baby. I remember when you got your first guitar. How happy you were to sit and play every day. It warmed my heart.”

I nearly break my teeth, grinding them. “I had to play every day, Mama. Remember? I was in physical therapy after wrist surgery.”