A Song for Julia by Charles Sheehan-Miles Read Free Book Online Page B

picked up.
    “Julia? Where are you?”
    “Hello, Mother. How are you?”
    “Where are you?” she asked, her voice firm. I stiffened my back, anger washing over me. Yes, so I screwed up. My whole life was one big screw-up. But maybe once in a while I wanted a mother and not a warden. My response was rigid, excessively literal, and laced with sarcasm.
    “I’m on the Acela train back to Boston. At the moment, we’re passing somewhere through New Jersey. If you’d like, I can ask the conductor for our precise location.”
    She was silent for maybe ten long seconds, then burst into words, her tone that of a mother speaking to a small, misbehaving child.
    “Don’t you dare take that tone with me, young lady. Explain yourself.”
    It’s possible she was a little bit loud. The man who sat across from me sat up straight, his eyes darting up to my face, meeting my eyes. He flushed and looked away, back down to his laptop.
    Did that really just happen?
    “What exactly would you like me to explain, Mother? I’ve been on the train all morning, so I have no idea what you are talking about.”
    Okay. We all know that I knew exactly what she was talking about. This was a stalling tactic. The odds were roughly fifty-fifty that my mother wouldn’t be able to bring herself to say it. Which would be nice. The downside was—if she was angry enough to go forward anyway, I was really going to hear it.
    She was that angry. Her next words came at a shout, and I had to jerk the phone away from my ear.
    “Julia! Explain why I woke up to find you on Maria Clawson’s website! On the home page! In a photograph nearly having sex in front of the White House with some drug addict!”
    I winced. The guy across the table from me heard the entire thing. He was full on blushing now. In an academic sort of way, it was kind of hilarious. I didn’t know guys could blush like that. It was cute.
    I sighed. “Mother, we were not having sex in front of the White House, we were kissing.” The guy across from me jerked in place, not even pretending to type anymore. I don’t know what got into me, but I continued. “Believe me, Mother, I know the difference.”
    “I’m sure you do,” she said, her voice laced with contempt.
    I winced. The barb hurt, just as similar comments from her had hurt before. She knew just where to dig in, just what buttons to push, didn’t she? She always had. My mother rarely missed an opportunity to rub it in.
    Well, maybe I also knew how to push buttons.
    “Actually, Mother , we didn’t have sex until we got back to your condominium. Your bed is so much softer than the ones in cheap hotels.”
    She gasped, and I snapped the phone closed and turned it off.
    It was a cheap victory, and it would cost me in the long run. But for a second, I felt such a sense of satisfaction.
    The guy across the table was staring openly now.
    I smiled at him—a false, professional smile that I had practiced over the years because it was what people expected. “I’m so sorry you had to hear all of that,” I said in as pleasant a tone as I could muster.
    He shook his head, and gave me a charming, off-center smile. “It’s quite all right,” he said, in a plummy, upper class British accent that made my stomach wrench. “I’m sure you said it simply to infuriate her.”
    “I said it to shut her up.”
    “I imagine it worked.”
    His accent was Eton College—wealthy, insulated, and powerful. Relaxed, drawling. It made me want to vomit. It brought back way too many unpleasant associations. I still had nightmares about a boy with an almost identical accent. A beautiful, amazing boy, who I let destroy me.
    He smiled again, still just as charming. Blonde hair, a little on the long side. Blue eyes. Tailored suit with cufflinks, not buttons. He was damned good looking. Which wasn’t an asset. He held out a hand. “My name is Barrett Randall.”
    Against my better judgment, I shook his hand. “Julia Thompson. And let me apologize again