Chapter Five
Mila
The cashier at the pharmacy, a tall, thin, twenty-something white guy with a reddish-brown ponytail, gives me a strange look before ringing me up.
He looks slightly familiar, but I can’t place him.
The register is slow, and he continues to stare at me while I wait for my total to appear. I lower my chin.
“You don’t remember me,” he says.
“Sorry. I moved away ten years ago and haven’t really been back since.”
“I looked different back then. I wore glasses, and my voice was a lot higher.” His expression gets a little sheepish. “But you used to make the best cherry lemonade in town.”
Now I see it. “Stevie?”
His cheeks turn red. “It’s just Steve now.”
The total pops up on the reader, and I tap my card. “Wow, it’s been a while. How are you?”
“Fine. I graduated from college last year, but I’m still trying to figure out what I want to do.”
I give him a sympathetic smile. “That can take time.”
“You haven’t changed a bit,” he says adoringly.
“Thanks.” The purchase goes through, but he just keeps staring at me. “Um, am I done?”
“Oh, sorry.” He staples my receipt to the bag and hands it to me. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”
“Maybe.” Flashing him a quick wave, I hurry out the front door and turn left. When I pass Novel Vine, the wine bar I noticed earlier, I stop again. The striped awning and elegant gold lettering on the window remind me of Paris. Moving closer, I peer through the glass.
It isn’t open yet, but I see someone behind the bar—a woman I recognize instantly.
Yasmine.
My heart trips faster. Is this her business?
Knock on the door, urges a voice in my head. Say hello. Say you’re sorry it’s been so long. Say you’ve missed her.
But after so many years, it feels daunting to make the first move. What if she isn’t the same Yasmine anymore? What if she’s angry we lost touch? After the catastrophic events of That Night, she tried her best to keep us together, but the damage had been done.
I should have been better. I could have reached out. I didn’t need to shut her out so completely.
With a decade of time—and a good amount of therapy—between then and now, I can see things differently. Admit that I played a role in things falling apart the way they did. But I can’t carry the fault alone.
My phone buzzes with a text from my mother.
Mom: Where are you? My eyes are getting worse.
I reply with an apology, saying I’ll be there in five minutes.
When I look up, Yasmine is gone.
I pull up at home, but I don’t get out of the car right away.
Instead, I open Instagram on my phone and find the account for Novel Vine.
It’s Yasmine’s place for sure, and as I scroll through posts about the renovation and grand opening, the sight of her smiling face makes my throat catch. She looks so happy.
I’m dying to know what the last ten years of her life have been like.
Where she’s been. How she’s changed, and how she’s stayed the same.
I’d like to laugh about old times, rehash crazy stories, revisit inside jokes.
I want to know if her grandmother is still alive, the one we all called Sitty, who draped paper-thin bread dough over pillows to stretch it out and made us all try the raw meat with spices she called kibbeh nayyeh.
I remember how scared I was to try something so different from the rabbit food I was used to at home.
I wondered if anyone would notice if I put the Lebanese delicacy in my purse instead of my mouth.
But of course, it was delicious. Maybe Yasmine makes it herself now.
My finger hovers over the blue follow button. I got rid of personal social media several years ago, so the only account I have is for Lavender Ladybug, my freelance botanical design studio. She won’t recognize the name, but one look at the profile and she’ll know it’s me.
I tap the screen.
And maybe it’s a stupid small thing, especially after so many years, but it feels big.
Like I’m setting something in motion.
Inside, I bring my mom the pill with a glass of water. “Need anything else before I unpack?”
“Not right now,” she says. “I’ll just rest for a bit then fix us some supper.”
“Don’t worry about it, Mom. I can take care of supper. Did I tell you I took a gourmet cooking class recently?”
“No, but there’s a lot you don’t tell me.”
My body goes rigid. She’s referring to the fact that I didn’t tell her about my divorce until a couple months after my ex filed. A year ago, I might have swung at that pitch, but my therapist has encouraged me to let those go by. Without another word, I head upstairs to unpack.
When I come down an hour later, my mother’s bedroom door is still closed, so I use the opportunity to set up a workspace in the small spare bedroom at the back of the house.
My mother converted it to a dance room when we moved in, so it has smooth wood floors and a wall full of mirrors.
There are two windows, which will provide some natural light, but I also packed my gooseneck lamp.
I lug a folding table up from the basement and set it up near one window before unpacking all my supplies. Tomorrow morning, I’ll teach my virtual classes, then spend the rest of the day preparing the house so it’s safe for my mother post-surgery.
I’m just checking my email when her bedroom door opens and she wanders out. She stops short when she sees what I’ve done. “You’ve taken over my studio,” she says, appearing slightly miffed.
“Sorry. I need a space to work and teach classes while I’m here. I didn’t think you’d be using this room much while you recover.”
She presses her lips together. “I’m getting hungry.”
“Okay.” I close my laptop. “Are there any tomatoes left in your garden? I can make us a caramelized onion, tomato, and goat cheese tart. It was one of the recipes from my cooking class.”
“I don’t eat goat cheese,” she sniffs. “But there are plenty of tomatoes in the garden. I haven’t been able to work out there much this summer because of my hips.”
“I’ll go pick some right now.” From the kitchen, I grab a bowl and head out the side door.
Her garden is at the back of the yard. At the sight of it, my shoulders droop.
It’s more overgrown than I’ve ever seen it, another indication of my mother’s pain level.
Normally, she keeps her yard as meticulously neat as her home.
As I fill the bowl with ripe cherry tomatoes, I vow once more to have patience with her.
Inside, I put the tomatoes in a colander and give them a rinse. When I come out of the kitchen, my mother is watching The Bachelor on TV. “Can you wet this again?” she asks, handing me the cloth she had on her eyes. “Very cold water, please. It was too warm earlier.”
I do as she asks, running the tap for a minute to make sure it’s icy. After wringing out the cloth, I return to the living room and hand it to her.
“I saw you chatting with Vera Pratt in the driveway,” she remarks, placing the cloth over her eyes. “What did she have to say?”
“Not much. She saw me arrive and came out to say hello.” I drop into a chair opposite the couch. “She mentioned there was an anniversary article about the fire in the newspaper.”
“Yes. It gave me a migraine.”
Annoyed, I fold my arms. “Why is a ten-year-old fire front-page news?”
“This is a small town, Mila. Drama never gets old.”
“Well, I don’t want to be small-town drama.”
“Then you shouldn’t have set the bakery on fire.”
“For God’s sake, Mom, I didn’t—” I stop myself from diving headfirst into this rabbit hole. Deep breath in, long exhale. “Never mind,” I say, working hard to keep my tone breezy. I push myself out of the chair and head into the kitchen to make supper.
When I see a bottle of Pinot Grigio in the fridge, I unscrew the cap and take a swig straight from the bottle.
It reminds me of old times.