Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Sarah
“Hi, Mom. I have great news.”
The hiss of the long drag off her cigarette comes before her words.
“Oooo. You're dating someone, finally?”
Was , I think to myself. Was . If I'd made this phone call yesterday, the answer to her question would be very different. But now...
“Ah, no. But it looks like I'm finally getting a staff position at a major magazine.”
Mom squeals. Squeals . You have to understand that my mom and I don't exactly align when it comes to, well... anything other than loving each other. There isn't really any conflict, thank goodness.
It's more that we don't click.
It's one thing when you're dating and you don't click. Or you're trying to make friends and don't really hit it off. Nothing's wrong with you, or the other person.
You're just not a good match.
My mom and I are not a good match.
“OMIGOD, SARAH! My daughter is a major writing star! I can't wait to tell all the girls. Which one? People or Us ?”
See? In my mom's mind, there are two major magazines.
Those two.
“Um, neither.”
“ Good Housekeeping ?”
Oh, boy.
“ The Beaconite .”
“The what?”
“You know. The Beaconite ? It's like The Atlantic or The New Yorker ?”
Another long drag. “Never heard of them.”
“Yes, you have. I used to have subscriptions to all three when I lived at home.”
“Those boring things? The cartoons aren't even funny.”
“Um, yes. The Beaconite is like that.”
“Oh.” She sounds deflated but rallies quickly. “Well, if you're happy, I'm happy for you! I'll get a subscription for the salon. When do you start?”
“I don't have the job yet. I'm super close, though.”
“On your final interview?”
“Something like that.”
“I don't know how you do it. I'd be so exhausted living your life. The city, meeting all those new people, writing so many words a day, honey. Scrambling for all those jobs. Is this one the big time?”
“It is. No more scrambling once I get this. One magazine, one job, with benefits.”
“Nice! Just in time before you turn twenty-six and lose health insurance through me!” Mom has worked for the last thirty-four years at the same hair salon back home near Becket. It's next to a maple sugar shack, an oil delivery company, and cider press. Hair Haven has been in business for nearly seventy years. Mom started after cosmetology school, just shy of eighteen, and she loves it.
Awkward silence fills the line. It always does.
“How's the salon?” I ask politely, because the answer is always the same and it’s a safe topic.
“Good. Janice spilled a whole bottle of conditioner on the floor next to Chair 1 and Chuck slipped and broke his leg.”
“And that's ‘good,’ Mom?”
“Sure is. Karma and all that. He cheated on her and still expects her to cut his hair after the divorce.” Cackles fill the air, descending into girl-like giggles I can’t help but join in on.
“Did she spill the conditioner on purpose?”
“Swears not, but...” Mom's low chuckle makes it clear she wouldn't convict Janice if this were a trial. “Hold on, hon. Phone call coming in.”
The background noise of Mom talking on the salon phone makes me smile. If you could bottle up the sound of home in one clip, it would be the whir of the hair dryers, the rush of water from the spray hoses, the high-pitched chatter of women hanging out as they beautify.
When I say the answer to “How's the salon?” is always the same, though, it's not always about Janice dumping conditioner. It's more that it's about the same people in town doing slightly different things, but they're all surface things. No one will ever talk about what motivated Chuck to cheat on his wife, or why the police chief's son roofied the new girl in town, or whether it's appropriate to talk about what she was wearing when he did.
Life is on a schedule there. Predictable. Scandal comes along in the shape of the unexpected, meant to be talked about and dissected endlessly as entertainment, but not as something to learn from.
Do I sound harsh? I hope not. Because there's a deep comfort in the rhythm of home, one I know I can return to when my go-go-go life gets to be too much.
Mom's stories remind me that I come from a place where I can go home and be accepted, but only because I grew up there. Here in the city, I can achieve acceptance by doing things.
Not by being a certain way. Fulfilling a rigid role. Acting within a defined set of expectations.
There's good in both, though. As I grapple with Case's revelation about his sister, brother-in-law, and niece and nephew, I wonder if not doing is a way of achieving, too.
Like not running my story.
He told me about his motivation for selling in the heat of our fight, the revelation deflating me. But then he tried to blame me for everything Prakash Shanti’s doing, and that pushed up against some limit in me.
None of this is my fault.
How dare he imply it?
I didn’t decide to be financially corrupt – Prakash Shanti did. I didn’t decide to sexually harass innocent women – Prakash Shanti did. I didn’t decide not to turn in a feature at The Beaconite and leave a hole Marsha has to fill with my story on Chakroga123.
“Honey? I’m back.”
“Can I come home to visit?”
“Uh – of course! You never have to ask, sweetie!”
“I know. I just wanted to make sure it’s not a busy weekend or something.”
“When do I have busy weekends other than prom and wedding season?” she says with a laugh. “And even if I do, home is your home. Your room’s the same. You know you’re always welcome to come back. Lots of people write from all over the world. You can do it from Becket. We have broadband!”
The rural internet initiative has given my mom this selling point.
My phone buzzes in the middle of the call.
“Hang on, Mom. I just got a text.”
“Sure!”
Got the food, Luna writes. Be there in five.
Luna and Adriana are on their way. Yesterday was a blur. After the confrontation with Case, I ran home in tears, collapsing and taking an accidental nap. When I woke up, eyes practically glued shut from crying, I almost reached out to my besties.
Almost.
Shame made my skin tingle. Fury made me want to throttle Case. Outrage made me need to learn more about what Prakash was doing to women.
And sadness made me listless and hopeless, staring at the ceiling as if it could give me good answers to bad questions. My kitty Dumpling took pity on me and curled up against my hip, those sweet little baby eyes asking me why I was so sad.
Or begging for food. Probably both.
When my phone buzzed, I ignored it. When my bladder finally forced me to get up, I peed and went into my kitchen for a glass of water. A numb, empty feeling took over and soon, I found myself in front of a window, staring out into the sun, capable of nothing more.
But my phone wouldn’t shut up.
When I finally looked at it, long after dark, I found numbers I didn’t recognize. Two of them.
And oh, the messages.
Dori told me to contact you. I have something to say about Prakash , one of them read.
And then there was the other one:
That fucker can’t get away with this. I want to talk to you. Dori said you could help.
Four. Now I had four sources for a story I never intended to write.
My other texts were from Luna and Adriana, asking if I wanted to get Vietnamese and watch Jewish Matchmaker with them on Netflix.
The thought of watching people date and marry filled me with nausea.
I wrote back to the sources and asked them if they wanted to meet in person. This time, we would avoid KoFigaro.
Then I wrote and rewrote, erased and typed, searching for the right response to my friends. In desperation, I finally just said:
Case and I had a big fight. It’s over.
Instantly, Luna popped back with:
Oh, no! We love you. Let’s bring the food to you. Chicken rice bowl with extra veggies?
It felt so good to be known so well. I spent last night sleeping and crying, and now today is another day.
A day filled with good friends, and tomorrow – a trip home.
“Hey, Mom?” I say, returning to our call. “My friends are coming over for dinner.”
“Male friends?” she asks hopefully.
That does it. The tears fill in.
“Uh,” I say, fighting hard not to let her hear the sob growing in my throat. “No. Luna and Adriana.”
“They are so sweet. How’s Jerry?” Mom asks about him all the time. She loves following Luna’s Instagram. She even made Luna send her a signed headshot of the dog, with his paw “signature” Luna made especially for her with an inkpad and Jerry’s front paw.
Which you can now buy for twenty bucks on Luna’s merch store. Mom was the test case.
“Jerry is great.”
“I saw he got a tick on him! Poor little guy. Lyme disease is awful for dogs.”
“It hadn’t bitten him yet, Mom.”
“Well, thank goodness for that. The world needs Jerry around for as long as possible. That little bugger is so hilarious.”
“Yeah.”
“Honey, I’m so proud of you. What’s the magazine again? Beacon Hill?”
“ The Beaconite .”
“Right! And you have a story in it?”
“I will in a month or so.”
“I’ll make sure I get a copy for my file. Is this one where we should do a nice frame, like we did for your college front-page newspaper story?”
The pain all those harassed women feel, being targeted by Prakash, rushes through me as if I’m a conduit. Stories like this aren’t straightforward. Every claim will need to be triple researched, because Dori was right: he said/they said stories are messy. You don’t want to wrongly accuse someone, of course. The hard evidence in many harassment cases is slim. Predators control the environment precisely so they leave as little proof as possible. By the time victims realize they’ve been trapped, they often have no way to verify their experience.
Abusers will claim dick pics were an acceptable response to her bikini photos.
Predators who converted consensual sexting into exploitative blackmail will claim “she was into it.”
Every inappropriate act will be translated into something lewd, but not illegal. And she wanted it. She liked it. She’s rewriting history.
It’s a second layer of abuse.
“We’ll see, Mom. We’ll see.”
My phone buzzes.
“Luna and Adriana are here with dinner, Mom.”
“Ooo! What’d you get?”
“Vietnamese.”
“Yum! I loved it when I visited you. Wish we had a place like that here!”
“Come visit me more, Mom,” I say, turning the tables.
“Hah! Watch out, or I’ll just move in with you.”
“You would never leave Becket.”
“You’re right, honey. This place is home. Your home, too. You coming tomorrow?”
I blink, shocked that it’s Friday. When did that happen?
“Maybe. I need – I have a bunch of work. But either tomorrow or Sunday.”
“Just text me before you come so I can make sure I’m home. I’ll grab some of your favorites at the grocery store.”
“You don’t have to do that, Mom.”
“I know I don’t have to. I want to,” she says with such warmth, I feel myself wanting to hop in the car right now and just flee back home.
“I love you, Mom.”
“Love you, too.”
Getting off the phone simultaneously hurts and is a relief. I slump back on the bed and stare at my old friend, Mr. Ceiling, willing my body to relax.
Bzzz
Expecting the text to be Luna, I’m surprised when it’s another person sent to me by Dori.
Five. Now there are five . Dori, Barbi, and three new people. My God, how many employees did Prakash abuse?
Quickly, I text Marsha, a simple one-liner telling her this story is more complicated than expected.
In more ways than one.
Bzzz
This time, it really is Luna and Adriana, and I buzz them into my building.
“Here’s the Breakup Bag,” Adriana says at the door, Luna behind her, holding a very bored-looking Jerry in her arms.
“You brought him?” I ask, starting to laugh.
“I figured Jerry could represent the good men in the world.”
“Jerry? Good? ” Adriana scoffs. “He took a shit in my closet yesterday!”
“Jerry has never broken a woman’s heart,” Luna declares, cutting her sister a glare. “And he marked his territory. You still have that ratty old t-shirt from Logan.”
“What does my ex have to do with Jerry pooping in my room?”
“He was weighing in on Logan’s character.”
“Jerry has a ten-second attention span, Luna. He pooped because you didn’t take him for a walk.”
“He’s a good man who is here to provide comfort,” Luna started again before I cut her off.
“I don’t hate men because of Case,” I say with a sigh as they plunk the food on my counter and instantly make themselves at home, removing containers and digging in my drawers for utensils. “I don’t hate men period.”
“Good. Because Jerry hates haters.” Luna looks at me and mouths, Like Logan .
“Jerry seems to have only one emotion, Luna, and it’s not hate.”
“Jerry is a kaleidoscope of emotion.”
I look at the dog, who wears the expression of someone who has taken way too much Klonopin.
Five-spice blend fills the air as I pop the top of my Chicken Rice Bowl, and instantly, I’m hungry.
We settle on my little couch and a big floor pillow, Luna feeding Jerry tiny pieces of pork from her bowl. Comfort food is called comfort food for a reason. It nourishes you emotionally, if not metabolically, but it also soothes .
In a world where very few things are soothing, and what used to feel like a very clear life with a direct path toward my goals, anything soothing is rare.
With a knife and fork, I cut through the chicken, cucumbers, and carrots, pouring sauce over the bowl and stirring the rice into the veggies and chicken, my little process a routine that adds to the comfort. Customizing small pleasures to meet my exact needs is self-love.
Given how much self-loathing I’ve been feeling, it’s a nice counterbalance.
“Okay,” Luna says, a few bites into her food, eyes locking with mine. “Spill.”
Adriana looks at me expectantly, chomping away.
“We had the best date.”
“Sounds like you didn’t,” Adriana says with sympathy. “If you had to dump him.”
“We were lying to each other. He knew who I was that night we met him in that bar. Knew I was researching Chakroga123 for an article.”
“Whoa,” they say in unison. I texted them to tell them we’d broken up, but this is the first time they’re getting details.
“So you never told him you were researching him, but he never told you he knew you were researching him and knew who you were when you had your hook-up at the bar,” Luna clarifies.
“Right.”
Adriana swallows, then starts nodding. “Why would you break up over that?”
“Because he lied to her,” Luna says as she dips an eggroll into a sauce and takes a huge bite out of it. Jerry gives her a look of longing, with more emotion than I’ve ever seen in his grumpy little face.
“She lied, too. It’s mutual lying. You’re even.”
“We’re not even,” I grumble, hating that she’s actually right. “He targeted me.”
“Do you think he was stalking you? Followed us to that bar so he could hit on you, sleep with you, and – what? Try to get you not to write your story?” Luna’s tone is one of inquiry, but with a tinge of disbelief. “That’s a little too close to serial killer behavior. Like that television show, You .”
“Case is not a serial killer,” I say flatly, my gut hurting. The food tastes too good to stop, though. A perfect mouthful of crisp cucumber, salty-sweet sauce, and a big tender slice of chicken with rice goes a long way toward lifting my mood.
“If you don’t think he stalked you and being at that specific bar at the same time was a coincidence, then what did he do wrong, other than not telling you he knew you were writing about his yoga company?” Adriana asks.
“ That’s what he did wrong.”
“Did he ever try to get you not to write your story?”
“Yes!”
“Really?”
“He wants me to hold it until the sale of his company goes through.”
“Sale?”
“Yeah. He’s selling the seven studios he owns. It’s a franchise deal.”
“He wants you to kill your story so he can make money?”
“Not – not kill. Just delay.”
“For how long?”
“Eighteen – seventeen days.”
They both stare at me, mouths closed, jaws still.
Luna blinks a few times as Jerry gazes at the half-eaten egg roll like he’s a wolf homed in on an injured sheep.
“You can’t wait that long?” Adriana asks.
“My editor can’t. Wants the story now. Like now now. I’ve got a very short window of time here.”
“Magazines take a while to be printed. Won’t the story break after the sale goes through?”
“It’ll be featured on the website for online subscribers before Case’s sale closes.” I appreciate that she’s thinking it all through, but I’ve worried my way through every possible loophole. There isn’t one.
We’re doomed.
“And if the story is printed, Case’s sale falls through?”
I sigh. “That’s what he’s afraid of.”
Adriana clears her throat and asks, “Is he wrong?”
“No. He’s not wrong. It’s Prakash Shanti who is buying his studios from him.”
Both inhale sharply.
“Damn,” Luna says before eating the rest of the egg roll and licking the tips of her fingers. Poor Jerry looks like she killed his best friend.
“That’s a big deal. The guy will be ruined once these stories break. Now I understand better. It’s not just about the yoga studios’ reputation. It’s that the buyer himself will be ruined, too. Why is Case selling?” Adriana asks.
More shame fills my body, screaming like it’s riding white water rapids through my bloodstream.
I hang my head. “Partly because his sister died last year from cancer and he’s cashing out to pay off her medical bills and create college funds for his little niece and nephew.”
Both of their mouths drop.
“Holy shit.”
“OMIGOD.”
“I’m a horrible human being!” I cry out, feeling slimy and filled with regret for something I haven’t even done yet.
“No, Sarah, you’re not, but… this is an impossible situation.” Compassion radiates from Adriana before she wiggles her fork against her pickled egg and takes a bite. “And what an amazing guy for caring about his family like that.”
“Tell me about it!”
Jerry makes a grunting sound of support. Either that, or he’s begging for some chicken.
“You really, really like Case,” Adriana said, muffled by her mouthful.
I close my eyes and take in a deep breath, focusing on her words. In all the hubbub around Prakash, the sexual harassment, victims coming out of the woodwork, the conflict with Case, I’ve forgotten this part.
The feelings-for-him part.
It’s easy to be righteously indignant over his betrayal. Easy to beat myself up for my own lying to him. Easy to go for the low-hanging fruit blame game.
How do I feel about him?
How do I really, deeply feel about him?
“I feel like all the goals I’ve had in life are being poisoned by this one, big clusterfuck. I like him. Really like him. Our date was phenomenal. MoMoTaste, wine and donuts back at his place, sex so amazing I felt worshipped, and a connection you just don’t get in life. Ever. Guys,” I say, no longer trying not to cry, “I didn’t know you could feel this way about someone. Or that he could make me feel so important.”
“Oh!” Adriana says, eyes glistening as she takes my hand.
“I didn’t know,” I whisper. “I didn’t know this was out there, waiting to be found.”
Instantly, I find myself in a group hug, their arms comforting me, my sobs coming out so fast I didn’t realize they were so close to the surface.
“You’re not a horrible human being,” Luna whispers in my ear. “And neither is he. You both just have different needs. What matters is how you feel when you’re together.”
“When we’re together, I feel like anything is possible. Like the whole world is this open, free place to explore. My narrow view of each day, broken down into manageable parts, goes away. When I’m with him, the world is a whole, full, rich land that we share together, and I’m eager and excited to be in it, without boundaries, without rules, without checklists or expectations. I’m the most me I’ve ever felt when I’m with him.”
Luna’s shoulders drop against me in our embrace, Adriana reaching over to rub her back.
“That sounds like love,” she says softly.
“I’ve known the guy for a week,” I murmur, but her words have such a ring of truth to them. “Not even. This can’t be real, can it?”
“Is he love bombing you? Could this just be limerence?” Luna asks.
“I don’t think so.”
“Then that sounds like the way to love.”
“You’re on a path toward it, Sarah,” Adriana says as Jerry grunts again and his little stub of a tail wags rhythmically against my hip.
“I’m on a path away from it,” I groan. “I told him to fuck off.”
“ Pfft . That’s nothing,” Luna says, laughing as we pull away. “I’ve said way worse to guys I’ve dated.”
“Have you tried reaching out to him?” Adriana asks as she takes a sip of her tea.
“No.”
“Has he texted or called you?”
“No.”
“You can be the first to reach out. Talk to him, Sarah. Sounds like there wasn’t much talking with each other yesterday. Lots of talking at each other.”
“He was so cold. Told me to cut the crap when I was lying to him about knowing the informant I was meeting.”
“Most people don’t like to be lied to.”
“But he was lying to me, too!”
“You’re really stuck on that. Maybe it’s convenient.” Luna says this in a cheery voice that is hard to reconcile with her actual words.
“Convenient?”
“Yeah. Like, you’re afraid to try with this guy. You’re so caught up in the fact that he lied to you that you don’t want to give what you have a chance. It’s like that third glass of wine at the bar. You live a life where you never, ever have more than two because maybe if you go outside your comfort zone, you’ll make a mistake.”
“Sleeping with Case was not a mistake!”
She and Adriana share a look that makes me nearly explode.
“You are in deep,” Adriana mutters, reaching up touch my shoulder. “You really, really need to talk to him. Drink a third glass of wine again.”
“I’m not going to get tipsy just to talk to him.”
“That was a metaphor. I meant you need to step out of your comfort zone.”
“Am I really that uptight? You guys think I’m afraid to take chances?”
“Not uptight, no,” Luna says contemplatively. “More like you get super focused on one thing, and can’t see anything else.”
“That’s normal. Everyone’s like that.”
They give each other side-eye. “Not like you,” Adriana says. “You don’t let yourself make mistakes.”
“I’m not a perfectionist.”
“This is hard to explain to her, isn’t it?” Adriana says to Luna, who nods.
“I take risks,” I interrupt, feeling defensive, pushing back against it as much as I can. “I’m not a scaredy cat trembling at life.”
“You’re not,” Luna confirms. “It’s more that you’re so driven inside by goals you can see clearly that unless it’s part of the goal, life doesn’t matter.”
I have no idea how to respond to that.
“And Case was never part of any of your goals,” Adriana adds. “I think it’s easier for you to get caught up on the lying so you don’t have to deal with something messy. That doesn’t fit into one of your focuses.”
Before I can even try to form an answer, my phone buzzes with a text.
This time, it’s Case.
Can we talk? Please? is all it says.
Pivoting the screen in my hand, I show them, my body breaking down, the trembling beginning in my chest, spreading to my limbs, until my soul is a tuning fork, striking hard against my heart, over and over.
I dissolve in my friends’ arms.
And lose focus.