1230 Avenue of the Americas 18 страница

“Yay! ” she says, smiling wide, and for a tiny, desperate heartbeat I can imagine living here, taking the bus to school, starting to figure out my life in the sweet studio above her garage. I want to tell her, Please, let me move in right now.

But of course she’s rational, and with a tiny apology in her eyes asks me to fill out the background check form. “I’m sure it will be fine, ” she says with a wink.

I’VE ONLY BEEN gone a few weeks, but checking into a motel in my hometown makes me feel like I’m returning to a city that has long since evolved without me. As I drive to the motel, I find a hidden pocket of San Diego I’ve never explored before, and although the corner of my dark city feels oddly foreign, the idea that there’s a different future for me here from any I had imagined before is powerfully reassuring.

My mother would kill me for not staying at home. Harlow wants to kill me for not staying with her. But even in the dim light and the cacophony of the I-5 freeway just outside my window, it’s exactly what I need. I check my bank balance for about the fiftieth time since landing. If I’m careful, I could make it to the start of school, and by then—thanks to my former advisor and the man who has gained me entrance to the MBA program that once heavily courted me at UCSD—I’ll have a small, rare stipend to help make ends meet. But even though the rent is reasonable in the studio, it would still be tight and my stomach flips imagining having to ask my father for money. I haven’t talked to him in over a month.

You are married? You have a husband, no? Ansel said, and God, that night feels so long ago. Curling into sheets that smell like bleach and cigarette smoke instead of summer grass and spice, I struggle to breathe and not completely lose my shit at eight at night in a dark motel room.

My neglected phone suddenly feels heavy in my pocket and I pull it out, let my finger hover over the button before I finally power it on.

It takes a few moments to load, but when it does, I see I have twelve missed calls from Ansel, six voicemails, and even more texts.

Where are you? the first one says.

You’ve left, haven’t you. Your suitcase is gone.

You didn’t take everything. I imagine him waking, finding me gone, and then walking from room to room, seeing the things I must have chosen to bring with me and the things I left behind.

Your ring isn’t here, did you take it? Please call me.

I delete the rest of the messages but not the voicemails, a secret part of me knowing I’ll want to listen to them later when I’m alone and missing him. Well, missing him more.

I’m not even sure how to reply.

I realize now that Ansel can’t be the answer to my problems. He fucked up by not telling me the truth about Perry and their past, but I’m fairly sure it had more to do with him being a stupid boy than wanting to keep me in the dark. This is why you get to know someone before you marry them. And the truth is that his lie was convenient for me, too. I’d been hiding in Paris, using him and the thousands of miles between France and the States to avoid the things that are wrong with my life: my dad, my leg, my inability to create a new future for myself beyond the one I lost. Perry might have been a total bitch but she was right about one thing: the only one moving forward in this relationship was Ansel. I was content to sit there, waiting, while he went out and conquered the world.

I roll onto my back and instead of replying to Ansel, I write a group text to my girls.

I think I found a place to live. Thanks for sending the list, H. I’m really trying not to lose my calm right now.

Let us come to your motel, Harlow answers. We’re going nuts not knowing what the hell is happening.

Tomorrow, I promise them.

Hang in there, Lola says. Life is built of these little horrible moments and the giant expanses of awesome in between.

I love you, I reply. Because she’s right. This summer was the most perfect stretch of awesome I’ve ever had.

Chapter TWENTY-ONE

JULIANNE REALLY IS a goddess because she calls before eight in the morning. With the time change, I was awake before five, and have been pacing the tiny motel room like a madwoman, praying it would all work out and I wouldn’t have to spend another day apartment hunting.

“Hello? ” I answer, phone trembling in my shaking hand.

I can hear the smile in her voice. “Ready to move in? ”

I give her my most grateful—and enthusiastic—yes and then I look around the dingy room after I hang up, and laugh. I’m ready to move into an apartment ten minutes away from my parents’ house, and I hardly have anything to take with me.

But before I can go, there’s one more call I need to make. As much as my dad refused to acknowledge my passion for dance, or even be kind about it, there is one person who was at every dance recital, who drove me to every rehearsal and performance, and hand-sewed my costumes. She did my makeup when I was tiny and watched me do it myself when I grew older, and stubbornly independent. She cried during my solos, and stood up to cheer. I’m horrified to realize only now that Mom weathered my father’s disapproval for years while I was dancing, and she weathered it because it was what I wanted to be doing. She was there when I moved into the hospital room for a month and quietly drove me, when I was depressed and deadened, to the dorms at UCSD.

I wasn’t the only one who lost a dream after my accident. Of anyone in my life, my mother will understand the choice I’m making.

I can hear the shock in her voice when she answers. “Mia? ”

“Hi, Mom. ” I squeeze my eyes closed, overcome with an emotion I’m not sure I’ll be very good at articulating. My family doesn’t discuss feelings, and the only way I learned was through threat of torture by Harlow. But my awareness of Mom’s strength during my childhood and what she did to help me chase my dream is probably one I should have had a long time ago. “I’m home. ” I pause, adding, “I’m not going to Boston. ”

My mom is a quiet crier; she’s a quiet everything. But I know the cadence of her tiny gasping breaths as well as I know the smell of her perfume.

I give her the address to my apartment, tell her I’m moving in today and that I’ll tell her everything if she comes to see me. I don’t need my things, I don’t need her money. I just sort of need my mom.

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 corset, 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 the big L-word, aren’t we? ”

“Lesbians? ” I deadpan.

She levels me with a glare. Serious-getting-in-touch-withher-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. ”

“God, so am I, ” Harlow says. “I was losing serious sleep with all your middle of o’dark-thirty phone calls. ”

I throw a pillow at her. “Ha, ha. ”

“And what about a job? You know my dad would hire you to come sit and look pretty in one of his offices. Want to confuse the hell out of some middle-aged executives for the summer? ”

“Actually, I got a job. ”

“That’s great! ” Lola grabs my hand.

Always the more skeptical one, Harlow continues to watch me. “Where? ”

“My old studio, ” I say. And that’s all I have to say, really, because barely a moment has passed before both Lola and Harlow are practically in my lap.

“So proud of you, ” Lola whispers, arms wrapped tight around my shoulders.

“We’ve missed seeing you dance. Fuck, I think I might cry, ” Harlow adds.

I laugh, halfheartedly trying to push them away. “It won’t be the same, guys. I’ll—”

“For us it will, ” Lola says, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes.

“Okay, okay, ” Harlow says, and stands to look at each of us. “Enough of this sentimental business. We’re going to get something to eat and then we’re going shopping. ”

“You guys go. I’m headed to the studio in a little bit to talk to Tina. I need to shower. ”

Lola and Harlow exchange a look. “Fine, but after you’re done we’re going out out. Drinks on me, ” Lola says. “A little welcome home for our Sugarcube. ”

My phone vibrates along the table and Harlow reaches for it, pushing me away with her long, glamazon arms. “Oh, and Mia? ”

“Yeah? ” I say, trying to get around her.

“Pick up the damn phone when he calls or call him yourself. You have ten voice messages and let’s not even talk about your texts. It doesn’t have to be today, doesn’t even have to be tomorrow, but stop being a wimp. You can go to school and work and pretend you’re not married, but you can’t fool us into thinking you’re not completely in love with this guy. ”

THE DRIVE TO the studio that afternoon is definitely weird. I expected to feel nervous and nostalgic, but realize almost as soon as I’m on the road that although I’ve made this drive hundreds and hundreds of times, Mom accompanied me on every single trip. I’ve never actually been behind the wheel for this particular journey.

It unwinds something in me, to take control of a course I’d moved along so passively for so long. The unassuming strip mall appears just past the busy intersection at Linda Vista and Morena, and after I park, it takes a few minutes for me to process how different it looks. There’s a glossy new frozen yogurt place, a Subway. The big space that used to be a Chinese restaurant is now a karate studio. But tucked in the direct center of the row, and updated with a new sign, new smooth brick exterior, is Tina’s studio. I struggle to press down the tight swell in my throat, the nervous lurching of my stomach. I’m so happy to see this place—no matter how different it looks—and also a little heartbroken that it won’t ever be what it used to be for me.

I’m light-headed with emotions and relief and sadness and just so much of everything, but I don’t want Mom or Harlow or Lola right now. I want Ansel.

I fumble for my phone inside my bag. The hot air outside seems to press against me like a wall but I ignore it, hands shaking as I type my passcode and find Ansel’s picture in my favorites list.

With breaths so heavy I’m actually worried I might have some sort of asthma attack, I type the words I know he’s been hoping for, the words I should have typed the day I left—I like you—and press send. I’m sorry I left the way I did, I add in a rush. I want us to be together. I know it’s late there but can I call? I’m calling.

God, my heart is pounding so hard I can hear the whoosh of blood in my ears. My hands are shaking and I have to take a moment, lean back against my car to get myself together. When I’m finally ready, I open my contacts again and press his name. It takes a second to connect, before the sound of ringing moves through the line.