“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.