Happily Ever Afters

by Elise Bryant

  When I get home, I actually text Lenore first, but she quickly declares:

  I love you girl, but I’m Switzerland. I’m John Legend whenever Kanye shows his ass on Twitter.

  NOT THAT YOURE KANYE!!

  Don’t be mad?

  Of course not. I text back. I get it.

  So I call Caroline. We haven’t been talking much, not like we used to, since she came to stay earlier this month. But I also know she’s always there when I need her, and I really need her now.

  She picks up after the first ring, like she always does, and I tell her everything—all the details about my dreamy week with Sam and the hand-holding mishap this morning and Nico’s declaration and the big blowup in the elevator.

  “And that’s how,” I finish, “I had the makings of a happily ever after with not one but two guys. But because I couldn’t figure out which of those endings I wanted, I’m left with none.”

  I take a deep breath. It feels good to get it all out.

  But Caroline is unusually quiet.

  “Tessa, I . . . I can’t do this anymore.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “I don’t know if it’s always been this way, or if it’s just worse since you moved, but you . . . expect me to be this permanent sounding board for you, with just this unending patience and interest in your life, and I can’t be that today.”

  “Caroline, I—”

  “You know, I’m a human too, with her own life and her own shit going on. I’m not just some best friend sidekick who only exists when you need her. This isn’t a movie.”

  “Do you think I think that? Because I don’t think that.”

  “Well, you have a weird way of showing it,” she mutters under her breath.

  For the second time today, I feel both completely misunderstood and also horrifyingly seen, like I’m being examined under a microscope or caught in a spotlight. How can these two people I trust so much think so poorly of me? And what does that say about me?

  I race to figure out where this is coming from. “Is this about what you were saying when you were here . . . about you and Brandon?”

  “About how we were going to have sex! About how I was going to make one of the biggest decisions of my life! I wasn’t sure if you even heard me, with how quickly you changed the subject. And here I was hoping that my best friend would pay attention to me for once, for something so freaking huge! But no, you went to sleep, and then we just pretend like it never happened . . . until you need me again.”

  There’s a fierceness, an edge, in her voice that I don’t recognize. Or I do recognize, but never when she’s talking to me, only when we’re talking about other people. People we don’t like.

  “I’m really sorry if I wasn’t the best listener. I mean, I know I wasn’t the best listener then. I just didn’t know what to say.”

  “But that wasn’t the first time, Tessa. It’s just the time that hurt me the most. And listen, I put up with how self-absorbed you can be, because I love you. But I just . . . I just need a little break, I think. Because I want to keep loving you.”

  I can feel tears on my cheeks even though I don’t recall starting to cry. I just feel so defeated. That I’ve screwed up so badly and been clueless about the whole thing. That I’ve made my best friend in the whole world feel so frustrated and unheard because of how self-absorbed I’ve been.

  Did I do the same to Sam?

  “I’m really sorry, Caroline,” I repeat. But it rings hollow. It’s not enough.

  “I’m sorry too . . . for what happened to you today. And I’m sorry I can’t be more there for you. Right now.”

  “No, no. You don’t have to—”

  “For what it’s worth, you were happy when I saw you with Sam, and now you’re not. I think if you’re honest with yourself, you can figure out the right next steps.”

  “Thank you.” It’s all I can say. Even with that, she’s giving me more than I deserve.

  “Okay, I’m going to go now . . . but it’s not forever. I just need some time, Tessa.”

  When we hang up, I want to call her back immediately, beg for her forgiveness, ask her all the questions about Brandon I should have been asking all along, and make up for all the ways I’ve been a terrible friend to her. But I know it won’t be that easy. And even more than the desire to call her, I just want to curl up in my bed and hide under the covers from the mess I’ve made.

  I feel like I’ve been shattered into a million pieces.

  I need someone to pick me up, to help me gather the shards. But there’s no one, and it isn’t anyone’s fault but mine.

  This time, I’ll have to do it myself.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Mom lets me stay home Tuesday, no questions asked, but by Wednesday she’s suspicious.

  “Do you think you have the flu?” she asks, sitting on the edge of my bed. She feels my forehead for what feels like the millionth time. “You don’t have a fever. How are you feeling today?”

  “I don’t know,” I grunt, pulling the blanket over my head and rolling away from her.

  “Some fresh air might help. You haven’t been out of here in days. . . .”

  “I’m not leaving my room.” I can’t see her face, but that seems to do the trick, her weight lifting off the bed. I hear the front door open and close.

  Some time later, though, there are footsteps in my room, and before I have a chance to be scared, the blankets whip off my head, and Mom is standing over me with a determined look on her face.

  “I think we need a mental health day.”

  Our first mental health day was in sixth grade, after I had to give an oral presentation on Egypt and sneezed in the middle of it, getting slimy green snot all over my face and hands. I was rightfully mortified, and Mom let me stay home from school the next day, declaring it a mental health day—our own personal take-as-you-need Johnson girl holiday.

  We ate giant pretzels in the food court of the Westfield Galleria, and when I couldn’t decide between three dresses at Forever 21, she bought me all of them, capping the day off with a celebratory car dance to her favorite song, “As” by Stevie Wonder, in the parking lot. And when I say car dance, I mean she actually made the car dance, by jerkily pressing the brakes and annoying all the cars stuck behind us. That mental health day was followed by many more: staying in our pajamas all day and eating bowls full of Cheez-Its and M&M’s and watching all four Twilight movies after Daniel texted me to say he had a new girlfriend. Two days in a row when I got my braces in middle school, claiming it was for the pain when we both really knew I was so anxious about people seeing them or getting food stuck in them that my neck was covered in hives.

  There were so many good memories, but sometimes they get overshadowed by the not so good. And they slowed down over the years as she started working full-time, when a day off, unless it was for one of Miles’s important appointments, became impossible. I wonder how she can afford to miss today with her new job.

  “What do you say?” she asks, her blue eyes big with hope.

  “Okay.”

  Mom lays out clothes for me on my bed like I’m a toddler and then instructs me to brush my teeth, take off my satin cap, and be ready in twenty minutes. It’s easy to do what she says.

  We walk to a little coffee shop in the neighborhood, and Mom leads me to a table outside under a black-and-white umbrella and then goes in to order. A few minutes later, she comes out with two steaming mugs of rose-milk tea, dried petals decorating the frothy surface, and a giant cinnamon roll with two forks. The rose and the pastry feel like signs from the universe, and they make my chest feel heavy.

  “So, are you nervous about reading at the gala?” Mom asks, sipping her tea. When I don’t immediately answer, she keeps probing delicately. “It’s coming up soon. And that would be totally understandable. It’s a lot for anyone. I just want you to remember that me and Dad and Miles are so proud of you.”

  Something inside me breaks with that—maybe it’
s because I don’t deserve that pride, maybe it’s because I’ve already disappointed two people and I want to shoot for that third strike. But before I know it, I’m sobbing—swollen eyes, snotty face sobbing—and Mom scoots closer to scoop me into a tight hug.

  “Oh, Tessa baby, what is it?”

  And so I tell her. How I started to tell her the truth that day but then got scared and lied about the gala. How I was definitely not selected and actually had no chance in the world of being selected because I really haven’t written a word since I started attending Chrysalis. How all I do is sit in my classes and pretend to write and just waste everyone’s time because the words stopped coming and I’m so worried they’ll never come again. How I’ve been so worried about disappointing her and Dad . . . and most of all, how I’ve disappointed myself.

  When I’m finished, I peer up at her through my blurry eyes, and I’m expecting to see horror on her face. Or disgust. At least the dreaded disappointment. But to my surprise, there’s none of that.

  Her face is warm and open. She hugs me tighter.

  “You need to cut yourself some slack, because you’re learning,” she says, her voice calm and steady. “And part of learning is making mistakes. Sometimes really big ones.”

  “You’re not mad?” I ask.

  Her eyebrows press together, and I get a hint of the anger that I deserve. “Of course I’m mad! Do you know how expensive those tickets were?” Her face softens again. “But I also love you. And I understand. I’m worried less about the gala than about you not writing.”

  “I don’t know how to explain it other than I just felt . . . paralyzed. I was scared to write anything because it’s not what they want. It’s not good enough. I felt—I still feel—like I don’t deserve to be there. That the admissions people made a terrible mistake by letting me in, and any moment they’re going to realize it and kick me out. I mean, that’s probably already in motion, if Ms. McKinney has anything to do with it.”

  It feels so good to get it all out, like I’m purging my body of something toxic. And I guess I am—of all the bad feelings and lies. I stop short of telling her about Caroline’s plan because I know how stupid it will sound, and it didn’t even work anyway. I had Sam, I lost Sam (and maybe Caroline), and it didn’t affect my writing either way.

  “Oh, my girl, you’ve been carrying such a heavy load,” she says, stroking my hair. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t paying attention enough to help relieve some of that.”

  “Mom, that wasn’t your job.”

  “Well, of course it’s my job!” she shouts, letting out something that sounds like a cross between a cry and a laugh. “You know, you’ve been like this since you were small, always hesitant to join in with other kids, watching and observing before taking any action. And I know part of it was you looking different from the other kids—which I know I can’t even begin to understand. Dad and I were never sure what would be the best environment for you two, but I know it probably wasn’t Roseville. I’m so sorry for that.”

  She pulls back to look at me. Her face is a teary, booger-y mess just like my own. We look so different, and yet so much alike.

  “And I understand your anxiety. So, so much. You probably get it from me.” She takes a deep breath. “I’ve actually started going to therapy, you know, during my lunch breaks on Fridays. And, well . . . I know you’ve been hesitant in the past, but I really think it might do you some good. Therapy, I mean. It’s helped me.”

  “Hesitant” is putting it very lightly. Outright refused is more accurate. It’s come up many times over the years, when she’s noticed me getting myself “into a tizzy,” or letting my worries take control. But I’ve shot down Mom’s suggestion that I try therapy each time.

  Because, like I tell her now, “I didn’t want to be a problem for you and Dad. Not that Miles is a problem. Just . . . I didn’t want to be responsible for another appointment you had to keep track of when I could manage it on my own all right. But then . . . I guess I haven’t been doing that too well, have I?”

  “I’m sorry,” she says, a new round of tears falling. “I’m so sorry. For whatever we’ve done to make you feel that way. Your dad and I have done our best, but . . . I know it’s never been perfect.”

  I can almost physically feel her attempting to lift this off my shoulders onto her own, as I constantly see her doing for Miles—for our whole family, really. And it feels good, to let go of that burden, to place it on someone else. But I also know that I created this mess for myself, and this is no one’s problem other than my own.

  “You don’t have to apologize for anything, Mom, really. I wish you’d stop that. I’m the one who lied to you.”

  She waves that away. “My point is, I should have noticed what was going on. I should have been here for you more. I feel so sad that I wasn’t.”

  We hug each other tightly. A hipster couple in matching plaid walks by and gives us strange looks, but I don’t even care. I feel just right being here with my mom, whatever we may look like.

  “Still . . . ,” I finally venture, after we catch our breath and wipe our faces. “I can’t get over the fact that maybe my anxiety was right in this case. Maybe I don’t deserve to be at Chrysalis. My writing . . . when I was writing, at least . . . it’s not the kind of thing that wins awards or gets read at galas.”

  “But does it make you happy?” she asks.

  “Well, yeah. When I did it. But what does that matter?”

  “Tessa, why wouldn’t it matter? It’s the only thing that does matter. Listen, I’m no expert. I’m just your mom. But I think there’s something to be said for making art just to make you happy. Not to win awards or impress others or get the attention of your parents who can be a little clueless at times. But art for art’s sake. Art for yourself.”

  I find myself nodding along. Creating something for no one other than myself. That’s the way it used to be, when I first started writing down stories for just my eyes. When did I lose that?

  “And let me tell you something I am an expert in,” Mom continues.

  “What’s that?”

  “You. I’m your biggest fan. I have been, ever since they pulled you out of me and called you mine.” She mimes this, and I can’t help but roll my eyes.

  “Ew, Mom, gross!”

  She playfully swats me away. “And I know that you are a writer. You’ve always been, ever since you first learned how to spell and put words together . . . or even before that! You used to fill up notebooks with scribbles and spend hours ‘reading’ them to Miles. You’ve always been a storyteller, and this is not the end. It’s just a blip in your career.”

  I fight the urge to roll my eyes at that too. “My career?”

  “Yes, this is just the beginning. Because you were made to do this. You deserve to be there just as much as every last person at Chrysalis. You deserve that seat at the table, Tessa.”

  She strokes my hair back and kisses my cheek, something she hasn’t done since I was really small. Any other day I would wipe it off and push her off me, but I’m relishing this closeness with her. It’s a comfort I didn’t know I was craving. But now that it’s here, it fits into my heart like a missing puzzle piece. She knows me, and she loves me anyway. Or she loves me because she knows me. What would happen if I saw myself the way she sees me?

  We finish our tea and cinnamon roll and end up ordering three cookies and a guava-and-cheese danish from the pastry case. That’s another thing Mom and I have in common—our love of carbs. We talk about Sam and Caroline and how I’m not talking to either right now. I even tell her about my stories being spread around the school and how I’m embarrassed to look anyone in the eye after that.

  “But did you die?” she asks, stacking the empty plates in front of us.

  I giggle at first, but then I realize she’s serious. “No?”

  “That’s right, you made it through. And now that you’ve faced the worst, nothing can touch you. You’re free, my girl!” She points at me, accentuating
each syllable. “And you can take that freedom and do whatever the fuck you want with it now.”

  “Mom!” I can’t help but laugh.

  “I can say whatever I want,” she says, throwing her hands out. “Just like you can do whatever you want. And I can’t wait to cheer you on—whatever you decide to do.”

  There’s peace in knowing that she believes in me. That she’ll support my next steps, and that she sees me as a writer, even though I’ve lost my vision for that part of my identity myself.

  There’s peace in the realization that she’s right: my worst nightmares have happened, but I’m still here. I’ve survived. And I know if it happened again, I would still survive.

  But even with all of that, what will I choose?

  There’s no guidebook, no eleven-step plan. No best friend or boyfriends leading the way. Just freedom to make the choices I want. I only need to figure out first what I want those choices to be.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  I made my choice. Or I guess in the end, it was kinda made for me, because Sam is avoiding my texts and calls like he’d avoid a gluten-free, dairy-free chocolate chip cookie, and Nico has been relentless in his declarations that he wants to be with me.

  We walk into the winter gala together, hand in hand. I can’t help but search the room to see if I can find Sam.

  The thing is, real life is not a romance novel. It’s not always logical. It’s not always linear. So even though my mom helped me see things differently, it’s not like everything just fell into place perfectly. Sometimes the heroine (who is, I guess, me) doesn’t run into the sunset with the man of her dreams.

  Being with Nico feels more like the absence of making choices. Just going with the flow, which is all I want to do after screwing up so badly before. And it all happened so quickly, which I suppose is how things go when you don’t have a best friend to agonize over pro and con lists with you or talk you through what to wear on the first date. I try not to think about what Caroline would think of this, because she probably wouldn’t approve, and that doesn’t make me feel great.