Chapter 39
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Sayla
So far, my Monday has been below average. To say the least.
Since I’d gotten a doctor’s note to skip school, Loren decided last night that she’d play hooky and stay home too. She scheduled a sub, and we both agreed to spend the whole day eating junk food and binge-watching all her mom’s favorite romcoms. I even made a list of the movies for old time’s sake.
Solid plan.
Or so I thought. Because halfway through what would have been third period if we’d gone to school, Loren set the Pringles container on the coffee table and paused the movie. I shoved an Oreo in my mouth, knowing black teeth are a small price to pay for the creamy center.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, chewing.
“I can’t just sit around all day feeling sorry for myself,” she said, and I tried not to feel judged.
“There’s not enough ice cream in the freezer.
And anyway, teaching will keep my brain occupied.
Otherwise, I’ll just be thinking about all the wedding vendors I have to call to get my deposits back.
And I’m not up for that today. It’s too soon. ”
I sat up, brushing cookie crumbs from my lap. “So you’re just going to show up in the office and say, ‘KIDDING! I’M NOT SICK?’”
“Pretty much.” Loren started for her room. “At least now you can go back to your romcom marathon without me infecting what little optimism you may still be clinging to with your cold, murdered-cuticle fingers.”
And with that, she left me to finish The Proposal.
Alone. Then I watched 27 Dresses, You’ve Got Mail, Notting Hill, and My Best Friend’s Wedding.
Also alone. Afterward, while the credits rolled on Julia Roberts and Dermot Mulroney, it occurred to me that a romcom movie marathon probably wasn’t the best choice of viewing material forty-eight hours after Loren’s broken engagement.
Still, her day turned out way better than it would have if she’d stayed here on the couch with me for ten hours. Because after teaching the rest of her classes, then sticking around after school to grade papers, Loren just called to say she’s going to dinner with Bridger.
Good for her.
Lonely for me.
So I collect the last two apple cider donuts from the kitchen and finish watching 10 Things I Hate About You.
This turns out to be a terrible idea, seeing as how that movie is a modern remake of Shakespeare’s Taming of the Shrew, which makes me think about Dexter directing Romeo and Juliet, and how triumphant he looked afterward, holding hands with me on the fifty-yard line.
By the time I reach the part in the film where Kat reads her list of reasons she hates Patrick, I realize how much I don’t hate Dexter.
Not even close. Not even a little bit. Not even at all.
My chin wobbles, and I swipe at my stinging nose.
I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry.
But the truth is, the worst thing I did this week wasn’t choosing to watch this movie. It was letting myself hope. Specifically, hope I could have it all. The FRIG, the job, the relationship. Almost like life with my mother taught me nothing.
I should have known better. She taught me all too well.
Speaking of my mom, though, I should probably call her. She may not be parent of the year, but she’d want to know I got hurt.
At least the literal injury, if not the heart part.
We haven’t spoken since the morning after my stellar performance at Tequila Mockingbird, when she called to make sure I was all right.
And now I’m kind of curious to see if she’s still engaged.
If a stable woman like Loren Cane can’t make it to the finish line with Foster Abel, what chance does Colleen Kroft stand with Eugene Bender from Apple Valley, Oregon?
Slim to none, probably.
But still, talking to my mom will be a good reminder that the only person you can rely on in the end is yourself.
“Hey, baby!” she chirps, taking the call on the first ring. “How are you?”
The mere sound of her voice brings up a flood of emotions in me, like I’m one of Pavlov’s dogs hearing those bells before dinner.
Old vulnerabilities and loneliness and insecurity bubble up, along with that thin net of safety I always felt around my mother when I was young.
Because no matter how much she drove me crazy, or how angry I got at her choices, we always had each other.
And the only word I can squeak out is, “Mom.”
Then I start to cry.
“Oh, Sayla,” she murmurs. “Oh. Oh, no. What’s wrong?”
“Eve … ry … thing,” I wail, but the syllables come out garbled over the wall of tears pouring out of me.
“Well, whatever happened, it’ll be okay. And I just know we can get through it. Together. We always did, and we always will. Now go get a tissue and blow your nose. Take a few deep breaths and take your time telling me everything. I’ve got you, baby.”
A half hour later, I’ve filled her in on everything that’s happened in the past few weeks. Some of which she kind of knew about—Tequila Mockingbird—but other stuff was news. The storm. The grant. My feelings soup.
She’s shockingly supportive, and I start to wonder how much of my story about her was framed over the course of my first eighteen years without any pause for amendments. And in the end, aren’t we all a little complicated? A little broken?
She may have hauled me around, kicking and screaming, for a couple of decades. But she kept me. And that’s more than I can say for my dad.
Still, she remains Colleen Kroft. And eventually the conversation circles back to her. And Eugene. And the Christmas wedding at the Clumsy Goat in Apple Valley, Oregon. “What do you think about wearing a dress like you’re one of Santa’s helpers? Just to keep up with the theme.”
“Mom.”
“What?”
“You’re suggesting an elf costume for my bridesmaid’s dress?”
“Sexy elf,” she clarifies. “And you’re the maid of honor, baby.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I’ll be your maid of honor,” I say. “But I will not be wearing any sexy North Pole-related clothing to the wedding. Choose any normal dress in green or even red, and I’m in.”
“You need to loosen up, Sayla.”
“I can’t, Mom.” I sigh. “I never could.”
She makes a long humming noise on her end. Then she says, “And I suppose that’s all my fault.”
I don’t know how to respond to this. Because she isn’t wrong. I have blamed her for a lot of things over the course of my life. Still, I’ve been a full-grown adult for ten years now. So I probably could start letting go of some baggage from my childhood.
“You did your best,” I tell her.
She sniffs. “I could’ve done a better job with the stability.”
“I won’t argue with that.”
“And I know you felt insecure sometimes,” she says. “That hurt me. I just didn’t know how to fix things.”
“You should have asked me,” I quip. “I had a list.”
She barks out a laugh. “You and your lists!”
“They’re what I do best.”
“You do a lot of things best,” she says. And my nose starts stinging again. “But nobody is perfect, baby. Least of all your mama. So you just go ahead and keep doing you. Clipboards and all.”
“Oh, I’ll never abandon my clipboards.” I let out a small laugh.
“But you will not hold one walking down the aisle.”
“Flowers only,” I say. “On that note, are you doing poinsettias or holly or—” I stop short as the sound of something out the front window gets my attention. The curtains are drawn, so I can’t see the yard, but there’s music playing.
“Mom? I gotta call you back.”
I don’t wait for a response before ending the call.
I drop the phone on the couch and move to the window to pull the curtain aside.
And there, on the lawn, next to the pile of leaves from our sugar maple, is Dexter Michaels.
He’s holding up a wireless speaker shaped like one of those old boom boxes my mom used to have. And a song is blasting from it.
“Steal My Girl.”
I’m in my bathrobe and slippers, I haven’t showered since Saturday, and last night’s benzoyl peroxide is probably still on my face, but I run for the door anyway. I meet Dexter on the lawn and stand there staring at him until the song finishes.
“Hey.” He sets the speaker down and sends me a crooked smile.
I pull my robe more tightly around me. “What are you doing?”
He shifts his weight. “I was going for that scene with John Cusack out in front of that girl’s house. Whatever her name was.” His smile falters. “You know. From Say Anything.”
“Never heard of it,” I say.
Now it’s Dexter’s turn to gape. And I let him suffer for a few seconds. Or a dozen. Then I say, “I’m kidding. Of course I know Say Anything. My mom made me watch that movie with her a bazillion times. Lloyd Dobler was my first real crush.”
Dex ducks his head. “How about now?”
“Oh, I got over Lloyd years ago.”
“Good.” He tips his head. “So how do you feel about me? Now?”
I wrap my arms around my body. “Honestly? Kind of terrified.”
I start to shiver, and he comes toward me, almost like he’s operating on instinct. “Let’s finish this talk inside where it’s warm,” he says.
I peek over my shoulder at the front door. “You mean in junk food alley? If you insist.”
We move into the house, settling on the sofa facing each other, and I suddenly feel like I’ve spent my whole life facing Dex on various beds, chairs, and couches.
“Before we say anything else,” he begins, “I need you to know how sorry I am for not checking in these past two days. I have no good excuse. I just honestly freaked out, and I needed a moment to get my head around how much I care about you. I might’ve even tried not to care about you so much.
But I was too late. The caring about you already happened. ”
“Same.”
“Okay, good,” he says. “Or bad, I guess. Depending on how you look at it.”
“Both?” I offer.
“Both work for me. But circling back to you, then.” He nods toward the window. “What you said out on the lawn before … I terrify you?”
“Yes, actually.” I tuck a leg under me. “The thing is, I’ve always been scared of hope,” I admit.
“I spent my whole life afraid of getting what I want, because every time I got even the tiniest bit happy or remotely comfortable someplace, we had to move again, and it was time to start all over again.”
Dex gathers my hand in his, and all I want to do is melt into the warmth of his touch. Not pull away from him, to stay in control. I’ve always been the one to end things first. It was safer that way. But maybe I don’t want to play it safe anymore.
“So I kept myself small,” I tell him. “I steered clear of big dreams. But now, around you, I can’t seem to stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Hoping,” I say, and my voice wobbles. “You’ve filled me with so much hope, I don’t know what to do with myself.
These past few weeks, I’ve been walking around all lighthearted and giddy, like I might lift right off the ground and float away.
” I push out a shaky laugh. “And maybe that kind of happiness sounds good to normal people, but to me, it’s even scarier than being numb.
Than feeling nothing at all. Because what’s going to happen if the balloon pops?
” I sniffle. “I’ll tell you what will happen.
I’ll crash and burn, Dex. And I’m not sure I could recover from that kind of fall. ”
His eyes go soft. “So what if we just decide to keep the air in?”
I blink at him, taking in the sincerity of his words.
“To be honest, I’m not sure I know what that looks like.
My mom was never able to handle her air.
And I just watched ten hours of romcom couples falling in love, but that’s fiction.
In real life, people exhale. They fall out of love. Or they get bored. Or they leave.”
“First of all, you are the furthest thing from boring, Sayla Kroft.”
I smile at him weakly. “High praise.”
“Also?” He runs his thumb along the side of my hand, slowly. Gently. “I thought I lost you twice already, and both times took me to my knees. I couldn’t even breathe, imagining you gone. So I’m never leaving you. Not if you’ll let me stay.”
“But.” My breath catches. “If you do stay, you’ll find out what a mess I am.”
“Newsflash, Kroft.” His mouth twitches. “I’m a mess, too. We both are. But that doesn’t mean we aren’t worth fighting for.” He reaches out to touch a spot on my chin—I knew I still had zit cream on—then he slides his hand up to caress the spot around my bandage.
I don’t even want to think about what my hair looks like, because he’s being so tender.
So kind. So completely … Dex. And for some reason, I trust him.
I believe he means what he says. That we might be messy, but that doesn’t mean we’re not worthy.
So in this moment, without any lists or clipboards to anchor me, I let myself fall for Dexter Michaels.