TO SAY I resemble my mother is an understatement. When we’re together, I always feel like people think I’m the Marty McFly version of her that has traveled from the eighties to present day. We have the same build, identical hazel eyes, olive skin, and dark, straight hair. But when she steps out of her enormous Lexus at the curb and I see her for the first time in over a month, I have the sense that I’m looking at my reflection in some sort of fun-house mirror. She looks the same as she always does—which is to say not exactly thriving. Her resignation, her life settling, could have been me. Dad never wanted her to work outside the home. Dad never took much interest in her hobbies: gardening, ceramics, living greener. She loves my father, but she’s resigned herself to a relationship that doesn’t give her much at all.
She feels tiny in my arms when I hug her, but when I pull back and expect to see worry or hesitation—she shouldn’t be cavorting with the enemy, David will be furious!—I see only an enormous grin.
“You look amazing,” she says, pulling my arms to the side to take me in.
This . . . okay, this surprises me a little. I showered under the dull dribble of a motel shower, have no makeup on, and would probably perform crude sexual acts for access to a washing machine. The mental picture I have of myself falls somewhere between homeless shelter and zombie. “Thanks?”
“Thank God you’re not going to Boston.”
And with that, she turns and opens the back of her SUV and pulls out a giant box with surprising ease. “I brought your books, the rest of your clothes. When your dad calms down you can come pick up anything I’ve missed.” She stares at my surprised expression for a beat before nodding to the car. “Grab a box and show me your place.”
With every step we climb to my little apartment above the garage, an epiphany hits me directly in the gut.
My mom needs a purpose as much as any of us do.
That purpose used to be me.
Ansel was as scared to face his past as I was to face my future.
I push open the front door, giant box nearly tumbling out of my arms onto the floor, and I somehow manage to make it to the table in the living-dining room. Mom puts the box of my clothes down on the couch and looks around. “It’s small, but really sweet, Lollipop.”
I don’t think she’s called me that since I was fifteen. “I kind of love it, actually.”
“I can bring you some of the photographs from Lana’s studio, if you want some art?”
My blood buzzes in my veins. This is why I came home. My family. My friends. A life here that I want to make. “Okay.”
Without much more preamble she sits down and looks directly at me. “So.”
“So.”
Her attention moves to my left hand, hanging motionless at my side, and it’s only now that I realize I’m still wearing my wedding band. She doesn’t even look a little bit surprised. “How was Paris?”
With a deep breath, I move to sit beside her on the couch and unload everything in a tumble of words. I tell her about the suite in Vegas, about how I felt it was my last hurrah of sorts, the last fun I would have until some undetermined point when I would snap out of it and magically realize I wanted to be just like my father. I tell her about meeting Ansel, the sunshine of him, and how I nearly felt like I was confessing to him that night. Unloading. Unburdening.
I tell her about the marriage. I skip one hundred percent of the sex part.
I tell her about escaping my life to go to Paris, about the perfection of the city, and how it felt initially to wake up and realize I was married to a complete stranger. But also, that it went away and what came instead was a relationship I’m not sure I want to give up.
Again, I skip every detail of the sex part.
It’s hard to explain the Perry story, because even as I begin, she has to sense that it’s the reason I left. So when I get to the part about the party, and being cornered by the Beast, I almost feel like an idiot for not having seen it coming a mile away.
But Mom doesn’t. She still gasps, and it’s that tiny reaction that unleashes the flood of tears, because this entire time I’ve wondered how huge an idiot I am. Am I a minor idiot, who should have stayed to hash it out with the hottest man alive? Or am I an enormous idiot for leaving over something anyone else would consider minuscule?
The problem with being in the eye of the storm is you have no sense of how big it really is.
“Honey,” Mom says, and nothing else follows. It doesn’t matter. The single word holds a million others that communicate sympathy and a sort of fierce mama-bear protectiveness. But also: concern for Ansel, since I’ve painted him accurately, I think. He’s good, and he’s loving. And he likes me.
“Honey,” she repeats quietly.
Another epiphany hits me: I’m not quiet because I stutter. I’m quiet because I’m like my mother.
“Okay, so.” I pull my knees to my chest. “There’s more. And this is why I’m here, instead of Boston.” I tell her about walking the city with Ansel, and our conversations about school, and my life, and what I want to do. I tell her that he’s the one who convinced me—even if he doesn’t know it—to move home and go back to my old dance studio at night to teach, and to attend school here during the day so that I’m as prepared as I can be to run my own business someday. To teach kids how to move and dance however their bodies want. I assure her that Professor Chatterjee has agreed to admit me to the MBA program at UCSD, in my old department.
After taking this all in, Mom leans back and studies me for a beat. “When did you grow up, Lollipop?”
“When I met him.” Ugh. Stab to the gut. And Mom can see it, too. She puts her hand on my hand, over my knee.
“He sounds . . . good.”
“He is good,” I whisper. “Other than the secrecy over the Beast, he’s amazing.” I pause and then add, “Is Dad going to shun me forever?”
“Your father is difficult, I know, but he’s also smart. He wanted you to get your MBA so you have options, not so you’d be exactly like him. The thing is, sweetheart, you never had to use it to do what he wanted. Even he knows that, no matter how much pressure he puts on you to follow his path.” Standing, my mom makes her way to the door and pauses for a beat as I let it fully sink in that I really don’t know my dad very well. “Help me bring in the last couple of boxes and then I’m heading home. Come over for dinner next week. Right now you have other things to fix.”
I’D PROMISED LOLA and Harlow that they could come over as soon as I was moved in, but after unpacking, I’m exhausted and want nothing other than sleep.
In bed, I hold my phone so hard in my hand I can feel my palm grow slippery and I struggle to not reread every one of Ansel’s steady messages for the hundredth time. The one that arrived since I unpacked says: If I came to you, would you see me?
I laugh, because despite everything, it’s not like I can just decide to stop loving him; I wouldn’t ever refuse to see him. I can’t even bring myself to take off my wedding ring.
Looking down at my phone, I open the text window and reply for the first time since I left him sleeping in the apartment. I’m in San Diego, safe and sound. Of course I’d see you, but don’t come until it works for the case. You’ve worked too hard. I reread what I’ve written and then add, I’m not going anywhere.
Except back to the States while you lie sleeping, I think.
He replies immediately. Finally! Mia why did you leave without waking me? I’ve been going crazy over here.
And then another: I can’t sleep. I miss you.
I close my eyes, not realizing until now how much I needed to hear that. The sensation pulls tight in my chest, a rope wrapped around my lungs, smashing them together. My careful mind tells me to just say thank you, but instead I quickly type Me too, and toss my phone away, onto the bed before I can say more.
I miss him so much I feel like I’m tied in a cors
et, unable to suck enough air into my lungs.
By the time I pick it up again, it’s the next morning and I’ve missed his next three texts: I love you. And then: Please tell me I haven’t ruined this.
And then, Please Mia. Say something.
This is when I break down for the second time, because from the time stamp I know he wrote it in his office, at work. I can imagine him staring at his phone, unable to concentrate or get anything done until I replied. But I didn’t. I curled up into a ball and fell asleep, needing to shut down as if I’d unplugged.
I pick up my phone again, and even though it’s seven in the morning, Lola answers on the first ring.
ONLY A LITTLE over an hour later I throw open the door and rush into a mass of arms and wild hair.
“Quit hogging her,” a voice says over Harlow’s shoulder and I feel another set of arms.
You’d never know it hasn’t even been two months from the way I start sobbing onto Lola’s shoulder, holding on to both of them as if they might float away.
“I missed you so much,” I say. “You’re never leaving. It’ll be small but we can make it work. I was in Europe. I can totally get with this now.”
We stumble into my tiny living room, a mess of laughter and tears, and I shut the door behind us.
I turn to find Harlow watching me, sizing me up.
“What?” I ask, looking down at my yoga capris and T-shirt. I realize I don’t look red-carpet ready, but her inspection feels a little unnecessary. “Ease up, Clinton Kelly. I’ve been unpacking and then sleeping.”
“You look different,” she says.
“Different?”
“Yeah. Sexier. Married life was good for you.”
I roll my eyes. “I assume you’re referring to my little muffin top. I have a new unhealthy relationship with pain au chocolat.”
“No,” she says, moving closer to examine my face. “You look . . . softer? But in a good way. Feminine. And I like the hair a little longer.”
“And the tan,” Lola adds, dropping onto the couch. “You do look good. Your rack, too.”
I laugh, squeezing into the seat next to her. “This is what France with no job and a patisserie around the corner will get you.”
We all fall silent and after what feels like an eternity of silence, I realize I’m the one who has to address the fact that I was in France, and now I’m here.
“I feel like a horrible human being for how I left.”
Lola pins me with her glare. “You are not.”
“You might disagree when I explain.”
Harlow’s hand is already raised in the air. “No need. We know what happened, no thanks to you, you withholding asshole.”
Of course they’ve heard the entire story. More accurately, Lola heard it from Oliver who heard it from Finn who had the good luck of calling Ansel only an hour after he woke to find his wife and all her belongings gone. For a bunch of dudes, they’re awfully gossipy.
We catch each other up in the easy shorthand we’ve developed over the past nearly twenty years, and it’s so much easier to spill everything for the second time since I’ve been back.
“He fucked up,” Harlow assures me once I get to the part where we’re headed together to the party. “Everyone knows it. Apparently Finn and Oliver have been telling him to fill you in about the situation for weeks now. Perry calls him all the time, texts him constantly, and calls Finn and Oliver to talk about it nonstop. Their breakup didn’t seem to surprise anyone but her, and even that seems to be up for debate. I guess Ansel was worried it would spook you and is counting the days until he can move back here. From everything I’ve heard, he’s completely head over heels in love with you.”
“But we all agree he should have told you,” Lola says. “It sounds like you were blindsided.”
“Yeah,” I say. “The first time he takes me to a party this nice girl started talking to me and then her face melted and she turned into a vengeance demon.” I lean my head on Lola’s shoulder. “And I knew he had a long-term girlfriend so I don’t know why it was such a leap to tell me it was Perry, and that he lived with her, and even that they were engaged. Maybe it would have been weird but it made it weirder that it was this big secret. Plus, six years with someone you don’t love that way? That seems insane.”
Lola falls quiet, and then hums. “I know.”
I hate the small twinge of disloyalty I feel when I criticize him this way. Ansel was shaped by his experience growing up in the strange, possessive, and betrayal-filled relationship his parents had. I’m sure loyalty and fidelity mean more to him than romantic love, or at least he thought they did. I wonder, too, how much of his time with Perry was about proving he’s not as fickle as his father. I’m sure staying married to me is at least somewhat about that—no matter how much it was my insistence in the first place. I need to decide if I’m okay with it being both about proving something to himself and loving me.
“How is he doing?” Harlow asks.
I shrug and distract myself by playing with the blunt ends of Lola’s hair. “Good,” I say. “Working.”
“That’s not what I’m asking.”
“Well, from the whole game of telephone, you guys probably know more than I do.” Deflecting, I ask, “How is Finn?”
Harlow shrugs. “I don’t know. Good, I guess.”
“What do you mean you don’t know? Didn’t you just see him?”
She laughs and makes tiny air quotes as she repeats the words see him under her breath. “I can assure you I did not go to Canada for Finn’s sparkling personality or conversation skills.”
“So you went up there for sex.”
“Yep.”
“And was it good enough to go back?”
“I don’t know. If I’m honest, I don’t particularly like him that much. He’s definitely prettier when he doesn’t speak.”
“You really are a troll.”
“I love that you act like you’re surprised. Finn and me? Not a thing.”
“Okay, Mia, enough avoidance,” Lola says quietly. “What happens next?”
Sighing, I tell her honestly, “I don’t know. I mean this is what I’m supposed to be doing, right? School? Figuring out what I want to do with my life? The irresponsible thing was going to France in the first place. The grown-up thing was coming home. So why do I feel like it’s all backwards?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Harlow hums. “Maybe because it sounds like you guys were figuring out a new plan together?”
I nod. It’s true. “I felt so safe with him. Like, my brain didn’t always know but my body did? I didn’t know his favorite color or what he wanted to be when he was ten, but none of that mattered. And the silly things I knew about Luke, the giant list of stuff in my head I thought made us compatible . . . it seems so laughable when I compare it to my feelings for Ansel.”
“If you could erase this one thing from your time with him, would you still be with him?”
I don’t even have to think about it. “Absolutely.”
“Look, I watched you lose the most important thing in your life and there was nothing I or anyone else could do to make it better. We couldn’t turn back time. We couldn’t fix your leg. We couldn’t make it so you could dance again,” Harlow says, voice uncharacteristically shaky. “But I can tell you not to be an idiot. Love is fucking hard to find, Mia. Don’t waste it because of some stupid lines on a map.”
“Please stop making sense,” I say. “My life is confusing enough right now without you making it worse.”
“And if I know anything about you, I’m pretty sure you’d already reached the same conclusion. You just needed someone smarter to say it first. I mean, I’m not downplaying what he did, it was a dick move. I’m just playing devil’s advocate here.”
I close my eyes and shrug.
“So we’re talking th
e big L-word, aren’t we?”
“Lesbians?” I deadpan.
She levels me with a glare. Serious-getting-in-touch-with-her-feelings Harlow is not someone you want to mess around with. “What I mean,” she says, ignoring me, “is that this wasn’t just about banging the sweet, filthy French boy.”
“It never really was just about banging the French boy,” I tell her. “I think that’s what freaked you out.”
“Because it’s big,” she says, and then high-fives me as we all yell, “That’s what she said!”
But then her expression sobers again. “Even when Luke left,” she continues, “I knew you’d be okay, you know? I told Lola, ‘It’s hard now but give her a few weeks. She’ll bounce back.’ This is . . . different.”
“It’s almost laughable how different it is.”
“So you’re . . . what?” When I still don’t have any idea what she’s asking, she goes on. “You asked me to talk to my dad about the annulment but is that really what you want? Are you two talking at all? And don’t shrug again or I’ll jump across this couch and punch you.”
I wince and shrug. “We text.”
“Are you in high school?” Harlow asks, swatting my hand. “Why don’t you call him?”
Laughing, I tell them, “I’m not ready to hear his voice yet. I’m just getting settled. I’d probably get on the next plane to Paris if I heard him say my name.” Sitting up and turning so I can look at both of them, I add, “Besides, Ansel is out there climbing the ladder and I was like a hamster running in a wheel. I need to get my act together so if he does ever get here, he doesn’t feel like he has to take care of me.” I stop talking and look up to see them watching me still, expressions completely neutral. “I needed to grow up, and Ansel being an idiot pushed me out of the nest in a way. He’s the one who got me excited to come back here to school. I just wish I hadn’t left mad.”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” Lola says. “I’m just so happy you’re here.”
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