“I’m sorry,” she says. “I should’ve asked you, but he just wanted to confirm the address. If I’d had any idea—”
“No, Mom, it’s fine,” I say. “I would’ve told you to give it to him.”
She hesitates. “So, how was it?”
“Great,” I admit. “And then terrible.”
“So the usual,” she says.
“Basically.”
“He’s always been great, for a while.” She sighs. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I know it sucks.”
“It does.” Tears well in my eyes. “It sucks so much.”
After a pause, she says, “You deserve a better dad. I wish I could give that to you.”
“You did.” I wipe my eyes dry, but my voice is tearier than ever. “You’ve always been my mom and my dad. And my best friend. You’ve always been absolutely everything for me.”
“Oh, baby,” she says softly. “I love you more than everything else on this planet combined. But no one person can be everything we need. Sometimes I couldn’t even really do a good job at being your mother, let alone those other things.”
“You were perfect,” I say. “You were amazing.”
“Amazing, maybe,” she says. “But far from perfect. Do you know how many school recitals I fell asleep during?”
I sniff. “No.”
“However many you had,” she replies.
I chortle. “That’s like drifting off to the tune of forty-five street cats in heat.”
“I wouldn’t know!” she says. “In my dreams, the fifth-grade class sang beautifully.”
I sink onto my rug, face in my hands, quivering with laughter.
“If I could do it again,” she says, after a second, “I wouldn’t have moved you around so much either.”
“You did what you had to,” I say.
“I thought so at the time,” she says. “But the truth is, I think we both could’ve been happier with less. We were, in that first apartment, just the two of us, remember?”
“I do.” Warmth brims in my chest. That place had thin walls and leaky pipes, but Mom made it feel like an adventure we were setting out on. We were the kids camping out in the Met in From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, or the titular children from The Boxcar Children living in the titular boxcar.
“I was just so scared I couldn’t really do it on my own,” she goes on. “And so many decisions I made were based on the fear of what could go wrong, instead of my hopes for what might go right. Every time that fear got tripped, I picked you up and moved you away, rather than facing the possibility of discomfort. I never took any chances.”
“You were a realist,” I tell her.
“Honey.” She laughs. “I’m a cynic. And a cynic is a romantic who’s too scared to hope.”
It feels like a nail driven into my sternum.
“Is that what I am?” I ask her.
“You?” she says. “You, my girl, are whoever you decide to be. But I hope you always keep some piece of that girl who sat by the window, hoping for the best. Life’s short enough without us talking ourselves out of hope and trying to dodge every bad feeling. Sometimes you have to push through the discomfort, instead of running.”
I know right then what I need to do. As badly as I want to run, this is my mess, and first I have to face it.
“Thanks, Mom,” I say.
“What did I do, exactly?” she asks.
“You’re here,” I say. “Whenever it counts, you’re here. When I grow up, I want to be you.”
She laughs. “Oh, god no. Just be you. The best you. The most you.”
When I get off the phone with her, I text Harvey right away: Think you can talk Ashleigh into an impromptu poker night next time Mulder’s with Duke?
OceanofPDF.com
33
FRIDAY, AUGUST 9TH
8 DAYS
Ashleigh beats me into work on Friday.
She doesn’t look up as I round the desk to take my spot, or when I pick up the paper Fika-stamped cup already by my mouse.
On its side, someone has written Ashleigh’s name, though somehow spelled much more incorrectly than if the barista had simply gone with Ashley.
Out of the corner of her eye, she catches me sniffing it, and her pink-painted lips curl. “It’s not poisoned, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“I was more worried about urine,” I joke.
“Well, after you taste it, let me know if you think there’s too much cardamom in my diet.”
I take another sniff and a sip. Spicy-sweet perfection. “Thank you.” I chance a look her way, but her eyes are glued to her monitor, nails clacking against her keyboard.
“A few of us went in on it,” she deadpans.
“Give them my regards,” I say.
She’s not ready for more chitchat than that, it seems, so we fall into quietly working at our separate stations. Still, it’s a start. From back in the office, Harvey gives me a knowing wink and a thumbs-up, confirming tomorrow night’s plan is in motion.
On Saturday, I wait two hours after our shift ends before punching Ashleigh’s address into my GPS.
It leads me north up the peninsula, then toward the shore, the final right turn rapidly approaching.
I duck my head to peer out the passenger window and slam on my brakes as a break in the foliage reveals a low, squat house tucked back from the road.
The car behind me honks, and I put on my blinker as I ease onto the flagstone driveway. It curves back and down to a sleek midcentury pseudo-mansion.
Behind it, the bay glitters, the view uninterrupted apart from a few pine trees.
I’d assumed Ashleigh never wanted to hang out at her place because she preferred to keep her social life separate from her life as a mom. Now I wonder if she was just playing coy about being absolutely loaded.
I park in front of the bright orange double doors, each slotted with a stack of narrow rectangular windows, and motion-sensor lights flick on. Despite the little sign picketed into the planter, Harvey has assured me that Ashleigh doesn’t actually have a security system.
In fact, he’s pretty sure she found the sign in someone’s trash after Duke moved out.
The spare key is exactly where he said it would be, under an empty pot around the side of the house.
Two nights ago, when we hatched this plan, Harvey and I were both so sure this would only delight Ashleigh. Now I’m less certain. I am, essentially, breaking and entering.
I step over the threshold, prepared to bolt if the alarm sounds. It doesn’t.
I take off my shoes and wander deeper, the terrazzo entryway giving way to a hallway on the right, followed by a massive chef’s kitchen with flush walnut cabinets and a Sputnik chandelier spanning the island. On the left, there’s a sunken, seventies-style living room with a semicircular couch wound around a fireplace.
I follow the hallway to the first bedroom: a guest room, I’d guess, based on the bland pseudo-coastal decor. The next room is covered with RPG franchise posters and drawings of anime characters.
At the end of the hall, I reach a bedroom nearly the size of our apartment, complete with a walk-in closet that feeds into the en suite bathroom of my dreams.
If that weren’t a clear enough indicator that this is Ashleigh’s room, there’s also the tarp, paint buckets, and paint rollers sitting in one corner, unused.
