Chapter 13
13
Evie holds back Imogen’s hair as she vomits rainbow sprinkles and churros into a Main Street, U.S.A., trash bin.
“I can do the teacups, I said,” Imogen moans. “It’ll be different this year, I said.”
“Always the optimist.”
“It’s my best quality.”
“Bested by motion sickness again, Gen?”
Theo appears at Evie’s side with a blue Gatorade because he’s been around long enough to know that despite Imogen’s best efforts, she’ll always face the consequences of the spinning teacups. Evie didn’t have to ask. Theo just knows her little sister’s post-vom electrolytes of choice. She ignores the way this act of care tugs at her heart as Imogen raises her middle finger in their direction, then stands tall and adjusts her mouse ears.
“Fuck off.”
Theo holds out the Gatorade. “You’re welcome.”
“Thank you.”
Imogen takes the bottle, chugs half of it, then skips toward Big Thunder Mountain. Evie and Theo trail behind, just as they always do, during their annual pilgrimage to Disneyland. It’s where Evie and Imogen have spent every Thanksgiving since Evie obtained her driver’s license and built up the courage to brave the I-5. Because on this day, the Bloom sisters are not interested in eating turkey, or watching grown men give each other concussions, or celebrating genocide. No. What they’re interested in is riding all the rides until one of them (Imogen) pukes. It’s Theo’s fifth pilgrimage. He began tagging along after Lori died. Imogen invited him, a gesture that cemented what Evie already knew to be true. Theo is more than her best friend.
He’s family.
She could’ve used that reminder before she dragged her teeth along his jaw like a feral animal. Ugh. It’s been weeks since she jumped him on a pickleball court, an impulsive moment that stirred up something dangerous. Weeks. Yet every sensation from that day is etched into Evie.
Her tongue on his skin.
Crashing.
Falling.
Bleeding.
Instead of processing that instinct to touch him in front of Violet—the possessiveness —she avoids, avoids, avoids. For Evie, the back half of November highlights included mid-to-disappointing episodes of Survivor , not itching off the gnarly scabs on her knees, and a conversation confirming that Sadie Silverman does, in fact, know her name. She’s still buzzing from the breakthrough she had with her mentor yesterday before they parted ways for the holiday. It was lunch. Evie had just offered Charlie the dill pickle that came with her chicken salad sandwich from Arnie’s when Sadie Silverman entered the mixing room, her eyes fixed on Charlie, her expression indecipherable.
I watched Ginger.
Evie gasped.
A piece of celery lodged in her windpipe.
Sadie Silverman pivoted toward a coughing Evie and asked, That… the dancing? It was you?
Still hacking up a lung, Evie could only nod.
Ross is a limp dick. Do you want to accompany me to a spotting session on Monday?
It’s a major upgrade from being the Coffee Bitch and wistfully observing Sadie Silverman work while separated by a glass window. During a spotting session, the director, sound editor, music editor, and Foley artists watch a locked cut of the visuals and catalog the needed special effects, music cues, and Foley sounds. It’s a chance to network, learn, and prove that she’s worth being taken seriously, that she can be trusted to work on real assignments. Union assignments. And shouldn’t that be her focus—on making the most out of every opportunity, on securing credits, on reapplying to IATSE as soon as possible? Once that happens, she can file for divorce. Evie can have her best friend back.
“Evelyn?”
His voice pulls her from the memory. “Hmm?”
“I think we have to accept it.”
Theo needs to be more specific, because her mind goes only to things that are impossible to accept. Marriage is blurring the boundary that’s kept him in the friend zone. Gives her an excuse to act on the attraction that she’s been quietly acknowledging for… what, a decade? Only three times has she dared to acknowledge it out loud. At seventeen, when Theo rejected her promposal. At nineteen, when she spent her entire savings on a flight to New York. At twenty-three, the night of Lori’s shiva. Every time? It’s been a huge mistake. So. No. She will not accept it, if the it in question has anything to do with whatever her lips on his jaw may have unleashed.
“What?”
“Gen is a Disney Adult.”
She laughs, feeling relieved and ridiculous all at once. “Did we not already know this?”
“Knowing something isn’t the same as accepting it.”
Theo’s tenor is breezy, but his eyes are fixed ahead, likely searching for the nearest snack stand because he doesn’t do roller coasters. Evie attempts to let his words—their implication—fade with the wind as she removes her nutmeg sweater. If Imogen’s delusion is that she can overcome the teacups, hers is that autumn exists in Southern California. She applies sunscreen onto her bare shoulders. Theo offers to hold on to her backpack and she hands it over and shocks herself when their fingers brush in the transfer. Evie swallows, then walks toward the coaster solo, attempting to navigate around THE HENDERSON FAMILY , a mob of neon orange T-shirts clustered in front of the Big Thunder Mountain entrance, while convincing herself that the sun, this heat , is the reason for her flushed cheeks. But. Theo’s right.
Knowing something is absolutely not the same as accepting it.
Because she knows that she likes it.
Her mouth on Theo.
His mouth on her.
But she’ll never accept it.
Imogen, already in line, waves her over, and she weaves awkwardly through the queue to reunite with her sister. Imogen’s eyes are fixated on her phone, likely checking wait times in the Disneyland app.
“Sorry,” Evie says. “I got swept up in a neon-orange riptide.”
“The Hendersons? Oh. I assumed you and Theodore ditched me to scandalize Mr. Toad,” Imogen teases, eyes not shifting from her screen. “Did you see Aunt Mir’s email?”
Imogen slaps her phone into Evie’s palm.
Subject: avia’s b’nai mitzvah
It’s a visceral reaction, the flip of Evie’s stomach that precedes nausea. She tries to recall the last time she saw Avia Deleve-Gomez. Remembers it was here, in this very park. Miri and Mateo traveled from the Upper West Side to the Happiest Place on Earth for Avia’s sixth birthday. Evie, twenty and spending her summer at the bungalow, drove to Anaheim, desperate to catch up with Naomi’s younger sister. Desperate for any connection to Naomi.
So desperate, she agreed to take Avia on the teacups—who then vomited all over her vintage combat boots. Motion sickness. It runs in the family. Then she learned through the aunt she barely knew that Naomi was summering in Cannes with Jean-Paul. Evie excused herself to dry-heave in a public bathroom before fleeing the premises to crochet blankets with and be comforted by the person who she sometimes pretended was her mom.
Lori.
Evie scans the email for the date.
Early January.
Six weeks from now.
“You’re thinking about it,” Imogen says, voice flat.
“What?”
“Going.”
“You’re not?”
“No.”
Evie hands Imogen’s phone back as they near the front of the line, then pulls out her own to confirm that the email is in her inbox, too. Forwarded with a note. We miss you . Evie swallows a lump in her throat. Miri stays in touch. Sends birthday cards and the occasional surface-level text. So she knew it was coming, this invitation. And she always intended to say no. But—
“How many?”
A cast member cuts off her minor spiral, directing Evie and Imogen to dots to stand on until their train arrives. It’s not until they’re on the ride and going up, up, up in darkness toward the light that her sister speaks again.
“Even if I wanted to subject myself to that, I can’t really dip into savings right now. For the flight. Sloane wants to move back to Denver.”
“Oh.”
Oh.
Evie grips the lap bar, her big sister brain activating on their ascent to the apex and natural light. “I’m sorry, Genny. Breakups suck .”
“Where exactly did you hear that we’re breaking up?”
“You’re going to try to make long-distance work?”
“No.” Imogen shakes her head and Evie’s stomach drops before they drop, understanding rattling her before her sister says, confirms, “I’m going, too.”
“You’re moving to Denver.”
Evie exits Big Thunder Mountain nauseous, though from the coaster or this news she’s not sure.
“I am.”
“Why?”
“Sloane hates LA and I love Sloane. So.” Imogen shrugs, then makes a pit stop for a churro on their way to meet back up with Theo. “It was easy. Saying yes.”
“What about your job?”
“Half my team is remote,” Imogen says. “It’s not an issue. At least until I figure out what’s next.”
“What’s next ?”
“Yeah. Remember how into ceramics I was in high school? Maybe I’ll explore that. There’s a lesbian-owned pottery studio in the mountains outside Denver that looks like an idyllic dreamscape. I can sign up for classes, then apply for an apprenticeship. Maybe barista in the meantime! I don’t know! But it’s fun to dream about it… which feels like a sign? LA is all I’ve ever known. You know?”
“So you’re just going to…” Evie swallows. Leave me. “… uproot your entire life for someone you’ve been dating for less than a year?”
Imogen’s expression hardens. “I knew you were going to be like this.”
“Be like what?”
“A buzzkill.”
“It’s my job.”
“Except it’s not .” Imogen storms ahead, biting aggressively into the churro. “It’s really not.”
“Someone has to be logical.”
She pivots, then swallows. “Love isn’t logical. I love Sloane. I’m pretty sure I want to marry her. Eventually! And you know what I’ll do? I’ll propose . Not come up with some bullshit reasons to marry the person I love.”
“What does that mean?”
Imogen laughs. “Come on .”
“Fuck off, Gen.”
Where is this coming from? She’s used to it from Pep. Not Imogen. Never Imogen. It cuts deep because Imogen knows—she knows —how true those words once were. Every time Evie misread a moment and considered crossing the line from friendship into something more, Imogen was the one who comforted her in the aftermath. She knows who Theo is to Evie. Who he’s not.
“Sorry.” Imogen throws up her arms, cinnamon sugar churro dust flying. “I’m sorry. Can we not fight today? Please .”
Evie’s expression softens.
She has so many questions, so many feelings about Imogen’s news, but she swallows them because she knows in her bones that her little sister spilled the news today, here, at Disney-land , to have an out. No fighting on Thanksgiving. A Bloom sister rule. So she lets it go.
Besides, Imogen is in love for now.
Her lease isn’t up for six months.
“I’m sorry I’m a buzzkill.”
Imogen snorts. “You’re not.”
They reunite with Theo, who’s waiting under an awning with a chocolate-covered Mickey Mouse ice cream that’s melting faster than he can consume it. When he licks his fingers clean, Evie averts her eyes. Imogen’s eyebrows rise. Bitch.
Theo, oblivious to their entire wordless conversation, says, “I added us to the virtual queue for Dr. Strange in the Hundred Acre Wood .”
Imogen’s eyes snap toward his. “Holy shit. You got in ?”
Theo frowns at his phone, then shows his screen to Gen. “I think so?”
Evie’s grateful for the subject change, until an hour or so later, when she learns against her will that this is part of the next phase of the MCU. Musical crossovers. It’s a fever dream, the entire production. Imogen loves it. “According to Jo, a Broadway transfer is, like, inevitable,” she says.
Jo, better known as @johanna_ever_after, is Imogen’s favorite Disney influencer.
Theo’s eyebrows rise. He mouths. Disney Adult.
Evie stifles a laugh. He’s right. Her sister is a Disney Adult. Evie loves Imogen’s unapologetic enthusiasm for the things that bring her joy. Imogen gushes over the power ballad between Dr. Strange and Eeyore, then speed walks ahead toward a gift shop that’s dropping a limited-edition Dr. Strange in the Hundred Acre Wood: The Musical pin. Evie and Theo follow, continuing to go wherever Imogen leads. Evie attempts to keep up—with the pace, the conversation—until she feels fatigue from the heat, from her feelings , seep into her bones. A reminder that this tradition takes a toll on her body. A promise that she’ll spend tomorrow horizontal. She pushes sweaty bangs off her forehead. Puts one foot in front of the other. Fades. It’s a classic feature of Evie’s particular brand of Crohn’s. Being fine until she’s not.
“Theo?”
He doesn’t ask what she needs.
Just squats low enough for her to climb onto his back and it is instant relief, being off her feet.
Her mouth hovers in front of his ear. “Thanks.”
“Always.”
Imogen burns out by 2:00 p.m.—right on schedule—then sleeps through the entire ride back to Pasadena. Theo drives. As soon as Imogen starts to snore, Evie’s cue that it is safe to speak, she word vomits her sister’s news and every complicated fucked-up feeling about it.
“It’s just so… Imogen to jump into something so reckless so soon.”
Theo shrugs. “I think it’s brave.”
“You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“There are sides?”
Instead of responding, she opens Instagram. It’s a mistake. The first photo she sees is a post from Naomi’s account of Margot, her sister, in a blue Burberry peacoat, skipping through Central Park, with a caption that reads, tons to be thankful for #burberrykidsxbluey . Margot looks so much like Imogen at that age it hurts. Strawberry-blond curls. Piercing blue eyes. Evie is so angry. So incredibly jealous.
It’s fierce, irrational.
Naomi is not a good mother.
Evie knows this.
But it’s just like Theo says, knowing isn’t accepting.
A memory surfaces. Thanksgiving. She’s eight. Imogen is six, the exact age Margot is now. Evie doesn’t remember what they were arguing about. Her and Gen. Barbies? A stolen shirt? The TV remote? Does it matter? She rarely remembers the trigger, just the reaction. Why are you doing this to me? Their dad was on a research trip in Nicaragua. Unreachable. Naomi locked herself in her bathroom. Unreachable. Evie pounded on the door. Begged Naomi to come out, tears streaming down her cheeks. Smoke alarms sounded. Downstairs, Imogen tried to salvage the charred turkey. But it was too heavy. The turkey. The ceramic Dutch oven that held it. Evie heard a scream, a shatter. Silence. Then the soft click of a lock. Naomi exited the bathroom. Evie followed her downstairs. Pled. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry . Her mother took in the mess, the disaster, the catastrophe that she created, said, I need a beat , then plucked her keys off the table. There was no one to call—their dad was a continent away, their grandparents in Atlanta, where Mo was contracted to build sets for a popular zombie show. So Evie cleaned up the mess. Kept Imogen fed and distracted until Naomi returned two days later with Barbies, with candy, with empty promises.
At eight, Evie already knew not to trust Naomi’s promises.
Imogen has a crescent moon scar on her left wrist from where ceramic burned her skin. In the rearview mirror, she watches her sister’s chest rise and fall, so proud of them for reclaiming this day and creating memories that aren’t completely fucked. Could this be their last Disney Thanksgiving? It hurts too much to think that far ahead, to consider what it means if her sister really, truly puts an entire mountain range between them.
“That’s Margot?”
Stopped in traffic on I-5, Theo’s eyes shifted to her screen.
“Yeah.”
“She’s getting big.”
Evie has the opposite reaction to the photo.
She thinks, Margot is so little.
Was she ever that little? She doesn’t remember ever feeling little. Not with Imogen on her heels and Naomi’s emotions to manage. She fixates on the photo. Margot is smiling so wide her nose scrunches. Is it real? Or has Margot—a child, a baby —already learned that their mother’s mood is dependent on that smile, that Naomi’s love is conditional? If Evie thinks about Margot too much it physically hurts, so she exits Instagram and opens Aunt Miriam’s email and rereads it. Naomi could be there. But also… Margot could be there.
Evie could see her baby sister.
“Aunt Mir sent an invitation to Avia’s b’nai mitzvah.”
“Avia’s twelve ?”
“I know.”
“When is it?”
“January.”
“Do you want to go?”
She bites her lip. “Naomi could be there.”
“I hope she is.” There’s an edge to his voice. “It’s about time she faces what a massive mistake she made.”
Evie’s laugh is hollow. She chews the inside of her cheek, hard , the hidden pain of a blooming canker sore preferable to any visible signs of pain. Theo’s words hit a tender spot, but she refuses to let anyone, even him, see how raw the abandonment still feels. It’s pathetic.
“Naomi doesn’t make mistakes.”
Theo’s jaw tenses, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. “You want to go.”
She shouldn’t.
But.
Aunt Mir wrote, We miss you . Margot might be there. Combined, those two reasons are enough for her to want to put the date in her calendar, want to book a flight, want to show up for what little family she has.
“Do you have a plus-one?” Theo asks.
“I do, but—”
“Great. When is it?”
“It’s in New York.”
“I assumed.”
Evie would never ask, but of course Theo would never make her ask. Doesn’t even make her verbalize the why that is pulling her toward RSVPing yes . He just promises that if this is something she wants to do, he’s in. It slows down the speed of her heart, even if there’s something terrifying about the thought of herself and Theo together in New York again for the first time since she confused her abandonment issues and missing him for something more.
Imogen’s voice echoes in her head. Come on.
It’s fine.
She has six weeks to prepare.
“Thanks, Theodore.”
“Always.”
Evie RVSPs before she can change her mind, then squeezes her eyes shut and surrenders to the fatigue in her bones, safe and scared and so exhausted.