12. Chapter Twelve #2
"Ah." She nods slowly, her eyes softening just a bit. "You're afraid."
I blink at her, not expecting such a direct answer. "Of what?"
"Of failing." She says it simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Of pouring yourself into something and having it fall flat."
I look down at my hands in my lap, unable to meet her gaze. Because she's right. I am afraid. What if I can't do it? What if all those years of putting my dreams aside have made me lose my touch? What if I'm not good enough anymore?
"You think too much," the judge says suddenly, her voice cutting through my spiraling thoughts. "You don't need to write the next great American novel. You just need to write."
I look up at her again, surprised by her bluntness. But also...relieved. It's so typical of her to cut through all the bullshit and get straight to the point.
"Just write?" I repeat, as if testing out the idea.
"Yes." She gives me a rare smile, small but genuine. "One word at a time, Inés. That's all it takes."
I nod slowly, letting her words sink in. It sounds simple when she puts it like that. Almost too simple.
But maybe that's the point. Maybe I've been overthinking everything for too long now, when all I really need to do is start somewhere.
"Thank you," I say softly. For more than just the advice.
She waves a hand dismissively. "Don't thank me. Just go write, and make your father proud."
***
Harrison wants me to go for dinner at Cynthia's house. I'm hesitant, of course, after everything that happened at the gala and then at the board meeting...but Harrison insists she wants to make amends.
"I'm not going to pretend things are perfect between you two," he tells me, "but maybe it's a start."
So I agree, despite my better judgment. If there's one thing I've learned these past few weeks, it's that sometimes you have to take a chance on people, even if they don't deserve it.
When we arrive at Cynthia's apartment overlooking Central Park, she greets us at the door with her usual polished smile. But this time there's something different about it. A little less sharp around the edges, maybe.
"Inés," she says, kissing both my cheeks in that European way she does. "How lovely to see you."
I raise an eyebrow but don't comment on her sudden warmth towards me. Instead, I just say, "It's good to see you too, Cynthia."
The staff takes our coats and Cynthia leads us to the living room where the dinner table is already set for three. She offers me a drink; a glass of red wine that I know costs more than what I spend on groceries in a week, and then we all sit down to eat.
It's awkward at first, as you'd expect. But slowly, as the conversation turns to books and publishing and everything else we all love, it starts to feel almost normal. Like we could be any other family sharing a meal together.
"This is nice," Cynthia says, looking at Wen, who's quiet but content with a plate of food in front of him. Then she glances over at me, "I do wish we could have seen eye to eye on Margaux, but..."
"Enough about her," Harrison cuts in gently. "I am done talking about ghosts and past mistakes. I am looking forward, now."
"Ah." Cynthia looks almost impressed by his resolve. "Well, then. Have you and the board come to a decision on how I, your very own mother, am to be punished for my transgressions?"
I freeze mid-bite, but Harrison just sighs and sets down his fork. "Mom..."
She holds up a hand, stopping him before he can scold her. "I'm kidding. Mostly." She turns to me then, her expression softer than I've ever seen it. "Inés. You did the right thing. I am sorry, my dear."
It takes me a moment to process what she's saying. Is she actually apologizing?
"For...everything," Cynthia continues, facing me, but flicking her eyes to Harrison as if for approval.
"For not recognizing your contributions.
For, uh, underestimating you." She hesitates for only a second before adding, "For thinking I knew better than you how to run our editorial department.
That was wrong of me. I should have listened to you. "
I'm so shocked that all I can do is stare at her. This is not the Cynthia Locke I know. This is not the woman who's always been so sure of herself, so certain that she knows best.
Harrison nods, turning back to his food. Did Harrison just order his upstart mother to apologize? That would be...very different, wouldn't it?
But Cynthia isn't done yet. She looks me in the eye again and says, "I hope you can forgive me. And if there's anything I can do to make it right between us..."
She lets the sentence trail off, but I get the message. She's trying, even if it feels like too little too late.
I glance at Harrison, who gives me a small encouraging nod. So, with more grace than I actually feel, I say, "Thank you. I appreciate that."
And maybe, just maybe, this will be enough to start fresh. Or at least move forward without so much bitterness hanging over us.
Because at the end of the day, we're still family. Dysfunctional and complicated as hell, but family nonetheless. And maybe that counts for something after all.