Chapter 16
“Can you text Jan and your cousin Amanda?” My mom is going over a guest list that is much longer than I would’ve expected a year ago. “They haven’t RSVP’d, but I thought they were both coming.”
She and Perry are in the kitchen, updating the status of every action item in their wedding to-do list while I make a fourth attempt at a perfect cat eye in the bathroom mirror.
I’m not totally satisfied with my eyeliner application, but it will have to do.
I’m doing too much for a literary circle jerk where people pretend to pay attention to some pretentious writer droning on.
But the fact that Hal reconfirmed with me yesterday has to mean that we’re over the weird pseudo-argument about Nick.
“Didn’t you say you only need a ballpark estimate?” I shout from the bathroom, doing my best to participate while multitasking. “There’s no seating chart.”
It’s kind of sweet that Mom and Perry include me on these wedding-planning sessions even though they are both too skilled at logistical coordination to need my help.
“The caterers need an accurate head count,” Perry says. Instead of a formal meal, they decided to hire a handful of food trucks to offer different dishes throughout the evening.
“And we need to send the estimate for the chair rental for the ceremony,” Mom adds. “Is your friend Hal still coming?”
After aggressively misting my face with finishing spray, I emerge from the bathroom in search of a snack. Treehouse has been the scene of several boozy hookups, but I don’t want to get too drunk tonight.
“Yes,” I assure her. “Include him in the chair count.”
I search the pantry for the box of cereal that I’m certain still had at least a bowl or two left inside. I move Houdini’s food, seeing nothing but cans of soup and my mom’s cookie stash. “Didn’t we have some Cinnamon Toast Crunch in here yesterday?” I ask.
“Oh. Sorry, Sam,” Perry says with too much sincerity for me to show any annoyance. “I finished it this morning. We must have the same taste in cereal.”
I guess I wouldn’t know that because Perry eats breakfast at an hour when I’m barely conscious enough to turn off my alarms.
“Do you need my help with anything?” I ask, noticing the time on my phone. “I have a thing tonight.”
Mom raises her eyebrows. “May I ask where you’re headed?”
“It’s a book event,” I reply. “A reading or something. Hal wanted to go. I’ll probably just stay at Romily’s after.”
We’ve never quite landed on the right balance of “informing” versus “prying” when it comes to my whereabouts. Occasionally Mom will send me a link to a video series from a woman who claims to do “coaching for emerging adults and their parents.”
I prefer the “ignorance is bliss” approach.
At first, I was completely honest with her about going over to Hal’s and spending the night.
She, of course, assumed that meant he was my boyfriend.
When my overnight absences continued without any further mentions of some kind of official relationship, I changed my story.
I’m still not sure if she really believes that I crash with Romily in her parents’ basement as frequently as I claim to.
Mom puts her hand on my shoulder. “Can you stay just a few more minutes? There’s something I want us all to talk about together.”
Those words make me shiver. It’s worse than “we need to talk.”
“What is it?” I ask, joining them at the counter. “You’re making me nervous.”
They glance at each other, and I sense there’s a whole silent conversation happening in the form of tiny eyebrow movements.
“Don’t be nervous,” Mom says. But I can feel my blood pressure rising.
My mouth is hanging open, waiting. They’re both just staring at me.
“You have to say it now! Jesus, Mom.” A dozen health-related crises race through my mind. “What’s wrong? Is someone sick?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” Perry reassures me. “That’s the thing—we want to take advantage of the fact that we’re both in good health and we’re up for an adventure.”
“Like skydiving?” I ask.
Perry smiles. “Not quite. I’ve already gone skydiving twice.”
Huh. Perry contains multitudes.
“We realized we have this really great opportunity,” Mom says. “Perry’s going to start working remotely.”
“Oh.” I glance around the apartment. “Do you need the office during the day or something?”
“I can work from anywhere,” Perry says. “It doesn’t have to be in the condo. It doesn’t even have to be in Columbus.”
“We’ve been talking about it for a while and we want to make a change,” Mom says. “There’s no reason to wait until we’re retired to explore a different lifestyle.”
I have no idea what this is building to, but the words explore a different lifestyle call to mind swinging or cults or—
“We’re going to be digital nomads!” Mom exclaims. There’s a giant smile on her face. “We’re going to live in Portugal.”
She’s beaming in a way that makes me wonder if I’ve ever beamed.
“Portugal for now,” Perry says. “But I’ve heard amazing things about Albania. The cost of living is low and it’s a beautiful country.”
They’re racing through this conversation while I’m still shifting into gear. Actually, no, I’m still checking my mirrors.
“Hold on.” I shake my head. “When did you decide this?”
“We’ve been discussing it for a couple months,” Mom says. “We wanted to figure out some arrangements and make sure it was definite before talking to you about it.”
“So, you’re…moving to Europe?” I ask dumbly. “Since when was this something you even wanted to do? I’ve never heard you talk about wanting to live abroad.” I grasp at any memory of my mother wistfully reminiscing over a trip to Greece or something, but I come up completely empty.
“Sam, we talked about this the other day. I’ve given up a lot.
I’ve lived in Columbus since college,” she says.
“I never even did a summer backpacking trip or studied abroad. And we started planning our honeymoon and looking through all these videos of people walking the Camino de Santiago. The more we started talking about it and researching it, we realized that there’s no reason Perry can’t help people plan their financial futures from some beautiful stone cottage in Porto instead of a spare bedroom in Ohio. ”
I let this visual sink in while dozens of questions run circles in my head. Notably: Why am I not doing nothing from a stone cottage in Porto instead of ten feet from this couch?
Instead, I get practical: “But what about your job? How can you sell real estate remotely?”
“Well, I’m going to put that on pause for now,” Mom says a little sheepishly.
I’m astounded and doing a poor job of containing it. This is the woman who spent the last ten years warning me about the importance of supporting myself without the help of a romantic partner?
“It’s not like it was my lifelong dream to sell three-bedroom ranches,” she says. “I’ve spent a lot of years compromising, and now I’m in a position to do exactly what I want.”
“She’ll have some passive income,” Perry says, ever practical when it comes to financial matters, “when we rent out the apartment.”
That’s the record-scratch moment.
“This apartment? Hold on.” I put my hands up. “I just…” Breathe. “When is this happening?”
“Assuming everything goes to plan, a couple weeks after the wedding.” Mom looks me in the eye. “We’re going to do some updates around here, and hopefully we can rent out this place by the beginning of the year.”
What about meeee? is the question I’m internally screaming. But what comes out is more combative than scared.
“Why did we have a whole conversation about chair covers before you bothered to tell me this?” I’m not exactly shouting, but I’ve lost whatever cool I had two minutes ago.
“I know it’ll take some time to wrap your head around it. But you have a while to figure out what you’re going to do once we find a renter.”
“With all due respect,” I say tightly and not very respectfully. “Wouldn’t it be easier to be digital nomads next year? After I leave for grad school?”
“We’re on our timetable, not yours,” Mom says, giving me a sharp look. “And you don’t even know that you’ll be going, Sam. You’re going on year three of this application process.”
I stare at her. She’s communicated her frustrations indirectly, but she’s never openly expressed doubt like this. At least not to my face.
“Jen.” Perry looks pained. “This is a lot to take in.”
My mom takes a breath and collects herself. “Maybe selling a few of those comics could help get you on your feet—”
“Don’t start on the comics, Mom.”
“We have to move them if we rent the apartment, Sam.”
“So Dad will come get them.”
Mom and I stare at each other. We’ve been stuck in this stalemate for years where the only winner is the guy who’s had years of free storage.
“It’s not that we’re trying to upend things for you,” Perry says. “For now, my job has instituted a flexible work policy, but that might change and I’ll need to be at the office permanently. We want to capitalize on the opportunity while we still can.”
I look over at the dog bed where Houdini is making old man grumbling noises in his sleep. “What about Houdini?”
“We’re working on getting the documents to take him with us,” Perry says.
“This feels like an eviction notice,” I say.
“Sam, come on now. You’ve been living here for five years. I’ve been happy I could give you a place to stay. But you’re twenty-seven years old—”
“Twenty-six.” She’s right, though: I’m a Charlotte Lucas. I’m twenty-seven years old (almost). I’ve no money and no prospects (true). I’m already a burden to my parents and I’m frightened (pathetic).
“Don’t you think it’s time for you to establish a little more independence? When an adult child moves back home, it’s supposed to be brief. It’s supposed to be due to some kind of shock. A divorce. Losing a job—”
“Right,” I say, gesturing to drive home the point. “That’s exactly what happened.”
I’m ready to unleash a new litany of defenses: Have you seen what the job market is like for people my age? Do you understand how ridiculously competitive this field is? I’m saving money by living here, aren’t I? I have a job! Haven’t you seen me being productive?
Perry has the expression of someone who’s being held hostage.
“The shock wore off a long time ago, Sam. You should want to move out of my apartment. And don’t you think Perry and I should have a space of our own?”
As much as I lament my lack of privacy, I’ve never considered that my mom might feel the same way.
Which kind of makes me the asshole here.
“You probably don’t want two Gen Xers as your roommates,” Perry says. They’re being so kind. I wish—so badly—that I could have that same ability to lay down my weapons and acknowledge that I see Mom and Perry’s perspective.
But I’m too upset to do that.
Actually, no. It’s something else.
A terrible feeling that I know all too well forms in the pit of my stomach.
I was never supposed to be having this humiliating conversation with my mom—a woman who cobbled together the money to send me to arts camp for two summers. Who clapped with tears in her eyes when I got that award at graduation. Who let me graduate high school early so I could start college.
I was supposed to be this star student. Hell, I didn’t even have a spectacular flameout—just a slow, embarrassing decline into mediocrity.
The terrible feeling is shame.
And while it’s been my constant companion in the background for the last few years, there’s a newer, sharper part coming into relief: the extent to which I’ve disappointed my mother.
“Will you let us help you figure out a plan?” My mom tilts her head down and gives me a hauntingly serious look. “It’s never too late to pivot.”
Perry chimes in. “If you want to sit down and look at your finances, I would love to help you with money management—”
I take a step back from the counter, feeling my eyes well up.
Neither of them is wrong, but I feel the urge to flee.
I can’t bear to continue this conversation where they try to mask all that disappointment with offers of help and advice.
Where my mom tries to paraphrase the talking points from the “emerging adult” specialist as if they’ve just occurred to her.
What she doesn’t understand is that admitting defeat is the one thing I cannot do. I don’t fail.
I can’t take the L and start over on a new career plan. If I just give up now it’s like those years of school, all that work—was all for nothing. And I just can’t do that. I can’t shrug it off and say, “Whoops, never mind!”
No. The only way out is through.
“I have to go,” I say, pushing past her outstretched hand. “I’ll figure something out.”