The rest I bite back. If I reminded her my old man threw me down and stomped on my wrist because I reached for water and spilled it on his paperwork, she’d excuse it or act like I’m the confused one.

Denial is one hell of a drug. In my mom’s case, it protects her from the shit. Suppressing memories or manipulating them into a less upsetting narrative.

Her remaining friend in Texas got her mental health license a couple years ago. She stays in touch to keep my mom from being completely isolated in their fucked-up world. She says gentle coaxing is best, but to back off when meeting resistance. And resistance I meet.

“Well,” she says, dismissively. “I’d love to hear you play again sometime. Maybe you could send me another message to listen to.”

“Yeah, Mama. I’ll send one. Or you could come to a concert and see me on stage. We’ll be in New York close to your birthday. I could set you up in the VIP tent.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary. But listen, baby, I’ve got to go. Your daddy’s home. He…” She hesitates while I brace for whatever she’s gearing up to say. “Your daddy … Foster, he worries you’ll try to upset Rose and Landon again. He thinks it’s in our best interests to keep some distance.”

Again. Because it worked so well the first time.

Two years ago, I sent a letter informing the current Mrs. West of her dedicated husband’s infidelity. Little good it did since his ex-wife-turned-mistress helped cover his trail. I’m uncertain of the details of how he convinced his wife it was bullshit, but a PI discovered his house with my mom is in her name—well, Meredith Glaser’s name. She apparently went back to her maiden name, at the behest of the bastard no doubt.

She changed her name for him, and I use a stage name because of him.

Neither of us want to be associated with Andrew West, but for completely different reasons.

Mine will be linked eventually. Maybe I’ll see what else the PI discovered and blow up his shit then.

Right now, I’m too exhausted by it all to bother.

“Okay,” I tell her. “Think about⁠—”

“Bye.”

She ends the call, and I toss the phone onto the floor. I scrub my hands over my face, groaning out the past few minutes. Then I roll to my feet, grabbing my notebook and pen off the floor. I close the balcony door behind me before lifting the entire fucking bench and setting it down facing the opposite way. Looking at myself in the reflecting privacy glass.

What fountain?

If only I could what everything as easily.

But duty calls. As much as we’d like to avoid Remi and Wannabe, we agreed to the group interview after the concert. Christian sent the location to our group chat.