by Lia Riley
I bare my teeth in something halfway approximating a smile while Logan folds his hands and bows, labels me a divine goddess.
Bran pulls out my seat and takes control of the conversation, uncharacteristically charming.
Mom’s going to burst an optic nerve, gaping at me. She must be wondering how by all the stars and moons I’ve managed to snag this handsome, well-mannered young man.
I’m also curious—who is this guy? Here’s a side of Bran I’ve never glimpsed. It’s not until we order our drinks, green tea for Mom and Logan, beers for Bran and me, the truth strikes home.
This is Bran’s mask, the slightly urbane, good-humored chap able to converse politely with my mom about her flight, my grandparents’ estate in Hawaii. I mean, he’s even touched on the weather. I don’t hear the word fuck pass his lips once.
Behold, Brandon Lockhart, son of a wealthy investor, educated in one of Australia’s most elite private schools. He’s dressed in a faded, threadbare T-shirt and his hair needs a trim, but it doesn’t tax the imagination to picture him in a crew cut and polo shirt. A casual tanned entrepreneur reading the business section at a beachside café, checking in to see how many millions he made while waiting for his second cappuccino.
Here’s the guy who seduced himself into panties all over town. The idea is morbidly fascinating. So is the fact that Mom is giving Bran serious cougar eyes.
“Any idea what you want to order, Mrs. Stolfi?” Bran asks, peering congenially over the top of his menu.
“Oh.” Mom blinks. “I’m divorced. And, please, call me Bee. Otherwise I feel so old.”
“Nonsense, you couldn’t be a day over fifty.” Bran smiles benignly while Mom blanches.
His foot nudges mine under the table and suddenly, despite his mask, I don’t feel alone. He’s baiting her for me. We’re a team, he and I. He might be acting like Brandon Lockhart the Charming, but I know he’s still the same surly Bran who thrills getting under other people’s skin.
It’s kind of fun to watch when it’s not my skin.
Logan twists off one of his chunky silver rings and passes it to me. “Rainbow moonstone,” he croons. “Mined in the far north of Canada, land of the aurora borealis. These rocks are precious, diffuse energy through the aura, aligned with galactic consciousness. Dig it?”
It’s an effort not to stab him in the knuckle with my chopstick.
“In addition to his chef skills, Logan is a budding healer,” Mom says, leaning close to him, letting her hands flirt up his hairy forearm.
Ick.
“I incorporate gems in my healing,” Logan says, fingering his soul patch. “The laying of stones is a powerful force.”
I spread a napkin across my lap. “So…you are a crystal healer. Like a real one?”
He blinks, puzzled, keeps rubbing his chin fuzz as if it will yield an intelligent answer.
“And, Logan, how about you, my brother?” Bran bursts in, taking control. “Do much surfing in Hawaii?”
My brother? Bran’s starting to overdo the act.
While Logan mouth-vomits words like enlightened, waves, and water prayer practice, I nudge Bran under the table. Enough, my foot tells him, back off a bit.
He knocks back. No problem.
Mom eyes the menu skeptically. She faces mealtimes like other people do horror movies, girding themselves for what’s to come, anticipating the worst. I know food is nothing more than a situation she can control from start to finish. For a second I feel a sense of kinship. She and I both have a low tolerance for uncertainty. We both want control in a world that spins wildly most of the time. We have different methods, but at the end of the day, our fears, our primal aches, are frighteningly similar. I smile at her, for a moment feeling no resentment, just a sympathetic camaraderie.
She gives me a little frown. “What are you ordering, Talia?”
“The bánh xèo is amazing.” Bran and I have come here a few times because the food’s killer and prices are cheap.
She scans the menu. “How’s that prepared?”
“Like a pan-fried crepe, not deep-fried or anything.”
Mom’s little laugh is patently false. “Fried is fried, Natalia.” She gives me a quick once-over. “Maybe we should split the soup.”
Bran glances at me and I shrug, pretending her words don’t sting. In truth, they shouldn’t. I should be immune at this point. Why do I ever pretend Mom and I have a nice relationship? Does she realize she’s hurting my feelings or is she so wrapped in her own issues that she’s totally oblivious?
The waiter comes over. Bran greets him casually and orders bowls of pho for Mom and Logan and two bánh xèos. “Talia and I just returned from Tasmania,” he says, handing the waiter our menus. “We didn’t get a chance to eat breakfast. She’s probably starving. I should have looked after her better.”
“Tasmania?” Mom glances up sharply, head swiveling between us. “What about school?”
“She’s found an interesting research project down in Hobart.” Bran deftly proceeds to chat around the edges of the idea Phillip Conway proposed. The one I’d e-mailed him that I’d be interested in further exploring, during the ferry ride back from Tasmania.
This strange, socially adept Bran touches on the idea of my project so as not to give a complete falsehood, but also not revealing that we’ve discussed me moving back here. A wild idea still tinged with the aura of fantasy.
He skirts the truth, never quite venturing into outright lies, and Mom eats up every word. Logan is too busy eyeing the Asian twins at the table next to us. Mom has to notice; he doesn’t even try to hide it.
Our food comes and I take a bite, bigger than intended, and choke.
“Talia, goodness.” Mom’s laugh is self-righteous. “It’s not going anywhere. Slow down.”
I take a sip of water.
A terrible thought occurs to me. Bran is good at telling people things they want to hear. Almost as good as telling people things they want to avoid. My stomach churns, revolting at the idea of food.
Bran lifts his beer. “Here’s a toast, to good food, good conversation, and the company of two amazing goddesses. Am I right, Logan, or am I right?” I don’t recognize that smile.
“Oh, Bran, you are an absolute sweetheart. To goddesses.” Mom clinks her teacup.
“Blessings to the sacred female divinity,” Logan pipes in.
I silently join in, ignoring the thought poking into my brain like a cherry pit. Mom and Logan are clearly a ways out there and Bran is politely rolling with it, giving the genuine impression of listening to every word, revealing nothing of his own thoughts.
What if he does the same with me? And my issues? Tolerates it but inwardly cringes. He has so many layers of defenses. Who is the real Bran? Will I ever know for sure?
“This dinner is so lovely. Isn’t this lovely, Logan? Talia?”
“Yeah, Mom.” Look at me, I silently plead with Bran. I need reassurance, to see him, the real him, not this freaky, charming automaton.
Look at me.
He must sense my pleading eyes because he gives me a small smile, but his eyes remain blank.
Careful what you wish for.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Talia
Mom and Logan are leaving town the next morning to tour local vineyards. Their absence is a relief. I can’t deal with another round of “getting to know you” dinners with Logan. Bran provides confirmation that the Wunderchimp is an A-grade douche bag.
“Did you see the way Logan checked out the ladies at the table beside us?” he asked, wrapping an arm around my waist, spooning me in his bed. “His mouth may say ‘women are goddesses,’ but his eyes were saying ‘I want to motorboat those titties.’”
“Sick.” I hit him on the head with the pillow. Now that we are alone, he is back to being my Bran, but I can’t shake the foreboding in my heart.
“Seriously, that dude is fucked.”
“Ugh, I know. I don’t know what Mom sees in him.” Bran ope
ns his mouth and I cover it with my hand. I have my own mask, the one where I joke and pretend everything is fine. “If you say a single word about motorboats, I’m going to pluck out your tongue.”
“I thought you were a pacifist?”
“Not where Logan is concerned.”
“So”—Bran settles a hand on my hip—“when are you going to tell your mom the big news?”
“About?”
“The fact that you’re moving back to Australia.”
Do you really want me to return, Bran? Are you ready for that?
“Oh, well, I—”
“Talia.” He watches me and I return his gaze without blinking.
“I’ll talk to her once she gets back to the city. Right before we fly home. It’ll be easier that way. I’ll say, ‘Yo, Mom, didn’t graduate. Moving back to Australia to finish school and bone down.’” More joking, more pretending.
He nuzzles my neck. “She’ll be so proud.”
“Yeah.” For once his kisses don’t override the icy fear sloshing around the pit of my stomach. “She’ll be something, all right.”
We’ve stepped to the edge of truth with each other, but it’s like we’re daring each other to take the plunge. I’m scared to go first, not sure if he’s ready to jump.
* * *
Mom contacts me after she’s back from her wine tour. We are both flying from Australia the following morning. I agreed to come over and meet her for an early dinner before heading to Bran’s place for the night.
“Where’s the Logmeister?” I scan her boutique hotel, relieved not to see him sprawled on the bed or leather couch. I cross fingers—and toes—that he isn’t about to stroll from the bathroom with a fluffy towel slung low around his waist. Don’t think I can stomach that sight.
“Logan’s left, Ladybug. Or rather, I left him.” Mom sits on the edge of her king-sized bed and picks a wine bottle off the floor. She tops off her glass with whatever white she is drinking and now the bottle’s empty. This is not a great sign. I chew the inside of my cheek and my rib cage grows smaller, overtight.
“What happened?” I don’t want to know the particulars but can’t ignore the drunk elephant in the room.
“As you know, Logan and I made plans for a wine tour, but instead we recalibrated and ended up in a village west of here, Daylesford, for a weekend retreat. After the past-and-future-lives course in Byron Bay, I’d begun to question our direction, but I wanted to get a second opinion. So we enrolled in a life-shaping class.”
“Life shaping, that’s kinda, I don’t know…ew?” I say. “I picture you squeezing feelings like Play-Doh. Sounds gross, doesn’t it?”
She gives me her look. The one that means I’m annoying, but Mom doesn’t use words like annoy. Instead, I’m just not “getting” her.
“Please, Talia. The weekend was many things, but not gross. Those two days were powerful. I had a profound experience. Logan isn’t the one for me. There’s another man waiting somewhere in my life.”
Yeah. She’s right about that. I call him Dad. But I hold my tongue because you know what? Dad deserves better than Mom and her endless chasing for greener pastures.
“So spirits came and informed you that Logan was no bueno,” I say with open incredulity. “What did they look like, just out of curiosity?”
She tucks her hair behind her ears. “They were but a feeling, a whisper in the back of my consciousness.”
“In other words, a thought.”
“Excuse me?” She knits her brows.
“You are describing a thought, an idea in your head that can occasionally do things like suggest logical courses of action. Like, for example, you should wake up and shed your phony boyfriend who’s more in love with his own self-indulgence than you.”
“Logan is a deeply spiritual man.”
“Uh-huh.” I tap my foot, one, two, three, four. The order, the predictability, stabilizes me. “Question: If he’s so in touch, why are you bailing?”
“Because he wants to be free in a way that I’m not ready to embrace.”
“Oh, please.”
“He’s too much man for one woman. Monogamy is a construct that is arbitrary and overbinding. A reality that we limit ourselves to when we should really be focused on forging cosmic connections with like-minded people.”
“Let me get this straight. Douche-bag Logan fed you douche-bag lines about how you should screw your way into serendipity?”
“Really, Talia. Your crudeness is a weakness.”
“A weakness, Mom?” I take a deep breath and pretend I’m someone willing to face down uncomfortable truths, like Bran. This is so far out of my comfort zone that I’m not even sure where I am. “Look. I’m not Pippa. I know we don’t talk the same way, but I’m trying to help. Someone has to tell you like it is. Guess I’m the only one here for the job.”
“I’m all ears, Natalia.” Her lips twist in a sneer. “I’d love to hear this life lesson.”
I throw back my head. Why do I even bother?
“You are the one with issues, Ladybug. I have tried and tried to give you advice. What you can do to improve, remedy the traps you set for yourself. But you don’t want to hear it. You mock my suggestions for yoga even though it would relax you. I suggest tulsi tea and you sneer. You are so smug, act like the world owes you something for your struggle. But the truth is that you are suffering because you can’t face life.”
“Enough with cherry-picking Buddhism, Mom.”
“Is this how you cope, with sarcasm? Because look where it’s gotten you. When I see you, I see someone who is surrounded by ego, by id.”
“We’re veering from Buddha to Freud? You are a pseudo expert in everything, aren’t you? Let me pull up a chair so I can take notes on your version of life, the universe, and everything.”
“Are you still anxious about your health?”
“Sometimes?” I don’t trust the strange, unblinking gaze she’s fixed on me.
“And your things…do you still do them?” Her words are softly poisonous.
“Rituals, Mom. Say the word.”
“I don’t know what to call them. They are something you could stop if you concentrated hard enough, opened yourself to things that are positive and healing. Instead you act like that is beneath you. How can I possibly help if you won’t even help yourself?”
“Is that what you really think, Mom, that if I buck up and go to a few yoga classes, start meditating in the morning, I’d be better?”
“It would be a start. It’s better than the alternative.”
“Which is?”
“Becoming a jaded, ill-tempered young woman.”
“Mom, I’m twenty-one. If I’m not jaded or ill-tempered, something is seriously wrong. Look at the world we live in. Look at the state of the country, the state of everything. I mean, global warming alone is going to—”
“Were you ever going to tell your father and I about school, your grades?”
My knees lock. “What?”
She stands and walks to the window, looking out over the anonymous city. “Your father called me before I left. A letter came from the university. He opened it thinking it had to do with graduation. Instead, it was a notification you were on academic probation. What is the matter with you?”
Oh shit.
I start to sit, stand, pace the room in jerky movements. “Mom, I know how this looks. I was going to tell you. And Dad. Things last semester, in my head, they got bad. I couldn’t focus—”
“Your inattention is dangerous. You make fun of me and the work I’m doing on myself. Maybe if you’d done what I’d suggested—massage, herbs, tinctures—you’d have never caused such harm.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Your sister. She died because you couldn’t control yourself.”
I hold up a warning hand. “Are we going there? Because if we are, we can’t come back.”
Mom forges on. I don’t even know if she hears my cautionary words. “Pippa di
ed driving to get you. Because you—”
“I was afraid I left the hair straightener plugged in.”
“You always thought you left the straightener on, but you never did. So you went home to check, again, even though you were late. And your sister came to collect you.”
“What about the tweaker who ran a stop sign because he was texting? That seemed to have a pretty dire consequence.”
“You couldn’t rein in your compulsiveness, Talia. And Pippa is dead. Dead.” She repeats the word like she can’t quite believe the truth.
I feel like Mom’s stabbed me in the chest with a dull and rusty fork. Of course, I’ve told myself this very same story, countless times. But to hear it come out of someone else’s mouth—to have your fears validated as fact—that cuts through the remaining unlacerated parts of my heart.
“Who knows who you’ll hurt next?”
I don’t hear what else she says because I’m slamming out of her hotel room.
* * *
It was Dad’s birthday. Mom made reservations at our family’s favorite Chinese joint. I was biking, late as usual, from class when I started worrying about my hair straightener. Did I leave it plugged in? Yes. No. Yes. No. The idea plagued me for blocks. I had to know for sure, so I texted Mom that I’d be another fifteen minutes late and detoured home to reassure myself.
Pippa and our friend Beth were already at the restaurant table, and knowing Mom and her dislike of anything unpunctual, they offered to run out and pick me up.
I’d felt dumb as I left the house. Not only was the straightener unplugged, but I’d also put it away in the hall closet. I jumped on my bike and started peddling furiously when the first ambulance sirens approached.
I rounded the corner and slammed on the brakes. Mom’s old Prius, the one she gifted Pippa when she started at UCSC, was crumpled in the intersection. I stared blankly, unable to tear my eyes from the GOING BOLDLY NOWHERE sticker my sister slapped on the rear bumper last semester. Blood pooled on the pavement beside the driver’s door.