Better Than the Best Plan

by Lauren Morrill

  I laugh. “Harsh!”

  “Well, they didn’t know. I didn’t exactly confide in them, or anyone really.” She smiles into her mug of tea. “And besides, they gave me the house, so it was hard to be too mad.”

  So that’s how Kris wound up living on Helena, and that’s why she doesn’t quite seem like the spandex-wearing, tennis-playing mothers who brunch at the club, who bought their way onto the island. Kris inherited it. It’s in her blood.

  “Anyway, I had sort of an identity crisis, decided that I was going to go with the plan I originally had, and applied to grad school here while also becoming a foster parent. Figured if the guy wasn’t going to stick around, I’d do it on my own.”

  “And that’s when I happened.”

  “And now we’re all caught up with our story.”

  We stab at our eggs, munching away in silence. I marvel, as I always do, at how amazing Kris’s food is. I can’t believe how she can take things she finds at a grocery store and turn them into this. If you handed me eggs and bread, well, I could make toast. The eggs—I’d have no idea what to do with them. My best guess would be to launch them at the homes of my enemies. But that seems to be how Kris moves through life: taking the ordinary and turning it into something extraordinary. That’s what she did with her heartbreak. That’s what she did with mine, too.

  “Enough with the sappy talk,” she says, tapping her fork on my plate. “Are you going to share your adventures with Young Master Ford? No pressure, of course. Don’t worry, Pete’s out for a training run. He won’t be back for at least an hour.”

  Her elbows are on the table, her coffee mug clutched between her hands as she leans forward, and I instantly flash to Lainey. Because this should be a conversation I am having with her. She’s my best friend. Who I haven’t seen in weeks, or talked to that much at all. I feel a pang, realizing what a shit friend I’ve been. I didn’t mean to ghost her, it just sort of happened. She had work, and I had work, and there’s a forty-five-minute drive between us. We kept trading short updates over text, but I always forgot to call. Dammit, she asked me to call, and I forgot.

  I make a mental note to text her, and then I spill the details of last night’s adventure. I tell Kris about learning to crack crabs. And I tell her that Spencer and I kissed out on the boat while watching the fireworks, but I leave it at that.

  “Was it a good kiss?” she asks.

  “The best,” I reply. “Not that I have any basis for comparison.”

  She smiles warmly. “Oh, with things like that, you don’t need a basis for comparison. You just know what you feel, and if it felt like the best, it was the best.”

  As if she can sense that that is as far as I want to go with the conversation, she sets her mug down on the table and cuts into her other piece of toast, the yellow yolk running across the plate. I mirror her movements, cutting a little triangle of bread and running it through my own river of egg yolk. The bite is warm and gooey and delicious.

  “So, big plans for today?” I see her eyebrow arch, and I know she’s asking if I have big plans with Spencer, but the truth is, I have no idea. When he left me on the lawn, his fingers lingering in my hand just a bit longer as he pulled away, he flashed me a dazzling smile and said, “See you tomorrow?”

  I don’t remember if I nodded or said yes or maybe even turned a backflip, but I’m pretty sure there was an affirmative. But when I reach into my pocket to check my phone, the screen is blank. Ugh, boys.

  “Not sure,” I reply, “but I think I’m just going to head down to the water and read for a bit before it gets too hot.”

  “Excellent plan. I may join you, if you don’t mind. I’m making my billionth attempt at Anna Karenina, and maybe safety in numbers will help me plow on.”

  “I don’t know how much fortitude you’ll get from me,” I say. I reach for the chubby romance novel I left on the counter yesterday, the one I pulled from her shelves. “I don’t think Fabio has ever graced the cover of a Russian novel.”

  “Screw Tolstoy, I need some bodice-ripping action,” she says, and laughs.

  “Meet me down by the water?”

  Down at the water, I settle into an Adirondack chair and crack the spine on my book. I’m happy to find that I left off just before a juicy sexy-times scene, and I like the way the warmth that spreads through me brings back memories of the boat last night.

  Heath is just about to bust the seams of Lady Aria’s emerald gown when I hear the sound of sandy footfalls. I look up to see Spencer running down the beach toward me from his house. He comes right up to my chair and starts jogging in place. It must have been the start of his run, because he’s barely broken a sweat, and I can still smell the sporty detergent his mom (or his cleaning lady) uses on his gym shorts.

  “Join me?” he asks, barely breathing hard as he prances in the sand next to me.

  “You’re kidding,” I reply, a statement of fact, not a question.

  “Come on, join me!” He tosses his head down the beach, as if the route of the run is going to rouse me from this chair.

  “I’m wearing flip-flops.”

  He shrugs. “I’ll wait.”

  I arch an eyebrow at him. “Jogging in place the whole time?”

  Guess I’m going to have to lay the hammer to his dreams that he made out with a sporty girl, because no.

  “Look, tennis was one thing, but I only run if—”

  “Bears are chasing you, yeah, yeah,” he says.

  “Actually, no, if a bear is chasing me, I’m curling up on the ground, playing dead, and hoping for the best. Don’t you watch the Discovery Channel?”

  “So under what circumstances do you run?”

  I pause, tapping my finger on my chin like I’m really thinking about it. “Now that I’m pressed to think about it, none. Under no circumstances do I run.”

  This is enough to pause Spencer in place, and to my delight he doesn’t look horrified or disappointed. Instead, he bends over, hands on his knees and laughs, shaking his wild hair.

  “How’s about this,” I say. “You take off and enjoy your run, and I will remain here enjoying my book and exercising my mind.”

  “That exercises your mind?” he asks, eyeing the scrolling, metallic font and the shirtless man on my water-spotted, warped paperback.

  “Do not dare judge a book by its cover, Spencer Ford,” I say, swatting him with my book, but he dances away, jogging in a little circle around my chair.

  “You’ll be here when I get back?”

  I flip the remaining one hundred or so pages at him. “If you hustle, you just might beat me. But I’m a fast reader.”

  “Good thing I’m a really fast runner!” he says, and then he’s off like a shot down the beach, the sound of his laughter echoing behind him, carried by the wind.

  * * *

  Spencer’s fast, but I’m faster. I finish the final pages of my book (Heath and Lady Aria live happily ever after, sans bodice, of course) and head back to the house to get ready for whatever Spencer could possibly have planned. After yesterday, really, anything is possible, though I’ll honestly be happy if we take the boat out into the water again and kiss until the sun goes down.

  When I see him rounding the bend back to his house, I head back up to Kris’s house to deposit my finished book and grab my phone. Kris never did join me on the beach. I swing by her office, but it’s empty. I’m just about to knock on her bedroom door when I hear what sounds like sniffles, the kind that come after a good cry. It’s so unusual for Kris to appear as anything other than put together that I can’t imagine she wants an audience for this. So I back away and head to Spencer’s. I start for the front door, but decide I don’t want to risk running into his dad. Instead, I circle around the back and go to settle into one of the lounge chairs by the pool, figuring I’ll text Spencer and let him know I’m waiting out here for him. But before I can pull out my phone, I hear a familiar voice drifting out of a nearby window.

  “Spencer, you don’t unde
rstand. I only want what’s best for you.”

  Mr. Ford sounds exasperated; that’s nothing new, but there’s something else in his voice that makes me pause. I know I shouldn’t, but I rise from the chair and cross the patio toward the open window, where I hear Spencer next.

  “No, you want what’s best for you, and that’s having a kid created in your image. Well, I’m not interested. Why don’t you try Ryan, who might actually want that? Oh, I forgot, because he’s not the perfect son you wanted.” Spencer sounds defiant. And so, so very sure.

  “What are you even talking about?”

  “I see the way you treat him. Like he’s a broken toy.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “It is! He wants to play golf. He wants to play tennis with you. But you always blow him off. You leave him sitting there on the benches at the club, wondering why his dad, who clearly loves all that stuff, doesn’t want to be seen with him.”

  “That’s because I’m trying to protect him! I don’t want people to stare at him. I don’t want him to feel like he’s different.”

  “You make him feel different.”

  There’s a long sigh.

  “Spencer, that’s not what I—”

  “Forget it. You’ve never cared what I have to say before. Why start now?” And then I hear a door slam.

  I hurry back to the lounge chair so Spencer won’t realize I was eavesdropping, but it doesn’t matter. It takes only a minute for my phone to buzz with a text from him.

  Rain check? Something came up.

  Of course I know he’s lying. I imagine he’s somewhere in his house, maybe up in his room, pacing like a caged animal, wishing he had a tennis racket to throw. But I let him have his lie, because I know what it’s like to want to keep it to yourself. I know what it’s like to need to melt down without other people watching, even people who want to help.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I’m in Kris’s office, scanning her bookshelves for something new to read, when I hear the doorbell. My heart picks up an extra beat thinking maybe it’s Spencer, having cooled down from his fight with his dad.

  I take the steps downstairs two at a time, jumping down the last three with a loud thud on the wood floors. I swing the door open, so full of excitement that I could leap into Spencer’s arms.

  Only it’s not Spencer at the door.

  Tess is standing on the porch in her professional social worker outfit, her ubiquitous overstuffed tote bag on her shoulder.

  “Oh, hi,” I say, trying not to look too disappointed to see her. “Was there an appointment I forgot about?”

  “No,” she says, a tight smile on her face. “Can I come in?”

  “Sure.” I move aside, and she steps through the door. We head for the living room, where she takes a seat on the couch, but I stay standing by the entry. “Do you want me to get Kris?”

  “Actually, I spoke with Kris on the phone earlier. I’m here to see you. I have some news.” She pulls her leather legal pad holder thing out of her tote bag and opens it on her lap and gestures to the chair across from her, so I sit. “Your mom is back.”

  * * *

  It was only a few weeks ago that I was at the DCF office, but it feels like a lifetime ago. It was another life. But now that life is waiting for me in a conference room.

  “You’ll have half an hour,” Tess says. “Unfortunately, it’s a busy day, so we have a lot of people waiting. Space is at a premium around here.”

  She’s not kidding. The hallway is lined with benches, and nearly every available space is occupied by kids. A few are sitting quietly, reading a book or tapping away at a phone. There are a handful of toddlers squirming impatiently while adults barely keep them contained. Two babies are crying at full volume while their adults bounce them in vain.

  “I don’t want to see him!” shouts a boy, probably middle-school aged.

  “We’ve been through this. Every two weeks you have a visit. That’s how it goes,” says an elderly woman who is fanning herself furiously. The boy beside her fumes silently on the bench.

  Tess leads Kris, Pete, and me through it all. She stops at a door that I recognize as her office. She opens it and gestures for Kris and Pete to go in.

  “You guys can wait here. I’ll come get you when we’re done,” she says.

  Pete nods and heads in, but I can tell Kris is having a hard time following directions. She stands there, her hands clenched at her sides, looking at me.

  “Are you sure you’re okay? Do you need anything?” she asks me.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “I promise. It’s fine.”

  She doesn’t look like she believes me, and I’m not sure I believe me either. It’s been just over a month since I last saw my mother. We were halfway to the state statute on abandonment before she showed back up. Part of me is relieved that she made it, part of me is still so mad at her for leaving, and part of me is filled with dread over what might happen now. All that anxiety and uncertainly from those first few days has come rolling back and settled in right in the pit of my stomach.

  “This way, Maritza,” Tess says. She pulls her office door shut and directs me to the door at the end of the hall.

  “Is she in there?” I ask, my heart pounding.

  “She’s waiting for you,” she replies. “You ready?”

  Yes. No. I don’t know.

  I nod.

  She’s sitting in the chair at the head of the table, her hair pulled up, a bright yellow scarf tied around her head to hold back all the curls attempting to escape. She’s wearing a long skirt in the same yellow, and a white shirt with delicate eyelet embroidery. Her skin is a little more tan, the freckles on her nose a bit more pronounced, but otherwise she looks the same, which seems wrong. She should look different, and I should look different. I am different.

  When she sees me, she sucks in a breath, jumping out of her chair so quickly it screeches across the scuffed linoleum tile. I wince at the sound.

  “Ritzy! It’s so good to see you!” she says, wrapping me up in a hug. She steps back, like she’s assessing me. What does she see? Do I look different?

  “I spoke with that social worker,” she says, her nose wrinkling on the title as if it were “prison guard” or “booger picker.” She steps back and returns to her chair, gesturing for me to take the one next to her. “She said that I abandoned you and that I could lose my parental rights. Can you believe that? Not that I’d ever claim to have rights over you. I mean, you’re an independent person, after all. You chart your own destiny.”

  I bark out a laugh. Yup, definitely still the same mom. “You did abandon me.”

  She recoils like she’s been slapped. “I did not! I told you exactly where I was going.”

  “Yeah, but I’m seventeen. And you left.”

  “Well, you seem fine. It wasn’t some kind of disaster, right?”

  I can only blink at her. I hear another baby cry out in the hall, followed by the start of an epic toddler tantrum. Yeah, I’m fine. I ended up with Kris and Pete, living in their beautiful home on Helena, welcomed into the family unquestioningly. But that was literally the best-case scenario. It could have gone in any other direction. It could have ended up anywhere. I could have ended up someplace terrible, with terrible people. Yeah, I’m fine, but it was only thanks to a metric ton of luck that things turned out that way.

  I want to tell her all of this. I want to scare her, to make her feel bad, but she’s sitting there staring at me, just so clueless.

  “You didn’t call or write,” I say finally.

  She sighs. “We were on a very strict regimen of silent meditation, Ritzy.”

  Like that’s a good excuse for cutting me off completely. I cannot suppress the eye roll. I swear you could see it from space. “You can’t spare a moment for your own daughter?”

  “But it was for you … for us,” she says, and now I’m more confused than ever.

  “What are you even talking about?”

  She sighs. “I
know you think the Bodhi Foundation is silly. I realize that. But I really do think it’s a path forward for me.”

  “Here we go,” I mutter, ready to hear another New Age sales pitch.

  “Ritzy, stop,” she says, her voice suddenly firm. All that airy-fairy, breathless tone she usually uses to talk about her spiritual journeys is gone. It’s just Mom. “I did this because it’s the start of an opportunity. A business opportunity. I can start to actually build something here. And with you getting ready for college, I really need that. I know there’s financial aid, but there will still be expenses to cover, and my collection of part-time jobs won’t cover it. I could really make a go at being a life coach with Bodhi. I could be good at this, Ritzy. And it could make a difference for us.”

  Whoa. Setting aside the ridiculousness that the Bodhi Foundation sounds like, with its New Age pyramid scheme, I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Words like financial aid and expenses sound like she’s speaking a foreign language. I didn’t realize she’d been paying any attention to the brochures and letters coming home from school, to the bulletins from the guidance office and the bulk mailing from half the admissions offices in the southeast. She actually was trying to do something good. Something sort of unselfish, even if it was in her own flaky way.

  She sighs. “I’m sorry, Ritzy, that you got pulled into all of this.” She gestures around the spare conference room. “If I had known you’d wind up here, I never would have left. I didn’t expect you to be ripped from your life. Has it been just awful?”

  Seeing her take in this life as if I’ve been in some kind of hovel pricks at me. Sure, Kris is sort of overbearing and pathologically chipper. And no, I haven’t always felt like I fit in there. But Kris and Pete have been nothing but kind and generous. They took me in when my mother walked out on me, and even if she can dress it up as trust and freedom, it still feels like abandonment.