Chapter Twenty-Five #2
“Oh, please, it’s just Celine. And thank you for the flowers,” she said, accepting them from the house manager with a “thank you, Louisa.” Celine held the blooms to her nose. “Peonies—my favorite. Oh, and look at these gorgeous delphiniums.”
When Dylan was growing up, the only flowers Celine permitted were austere lilies from the region’s most expensive florist.
Celine began adding the colorful blooms to the larger bouquet, seeming to garner actual pleasure from doing so. “There’s refreshments outside. Make yourselves comfortable and I’ll be out in a tick.”
· · ·
On the shaded back patio, Dylan chugged half a glass of white wine, eyes darting to take in even more changes.
The manicured garden and symmetrical hedges of their youth had overgrown into something more natural—a wilder, lived-in beauty.
The patio furniture was comfortable. There was a smudge on a fork.
“Who is that woman and what has she done with my mother?” Dylan squinted suspiciously at the hors d’oeuvres and salad that didn’t appear to be catered.
“Do you think she’s going to ask me for a kidney? Or reveal that Louisa is my sister?”
Vicky chuckled, sampling a tiny tart. “You said you haven’t spoken in five years, right? That’s a long time.”
Dylan had changed a lot in the last five years: new start-up, new gender identity, newfound appreciation of pleated slacks. Slightly embarrassing to realize they’d assumed their mother would be exactly the same.
“Still,” Vicky added. “Must be disorienting. My mom’s still, like, in her factory settings.”
Dylan chuckled and squeezed Vicky’s knee. “I’m glad you’re here, Vee. You’re good in a crisis and you’re incredibly hot.”
Vicky gave Dylan a comforting smile. “And you’re very sexy and incredibly needy.”
Dylan laughed as Celine came out, carrying a ceramic pan with oven gloves. “Mom’s Marvelous Meatloaf,” she announced, placing it in the center of the table. “Careful, the pan’s hot.”
Vicky kept up polite chatter as Celine served them all a fat wedge of the savory loaf.
It was almost disconcertingly good: perfectly seasoned, juicy ground meat and a tangy-sweet glaze that melted into the crispy edges.
Delicious, as always, but also a sense-memory of being fifteen and furious to be forced into a dress.
Dylan chewed tensely, watching the two women discuss the play.
“I don’t know if you remember Jazz Whitaker, our director,” Vicky said to Celine, “but she has this whole plan to rebrand Rhodes as, like, a queer hotspot.”
Dylan tensed, anticipating Celine’s disapproval. But Celine nodded with interest. “Sounds like a great idea. If she needs any help, I’d be happy to roll up my sleeves.” She gestured laughingly at a streak of soil on her arm. “As you can see, I don’t mind getting dirty.”
That was the final straw. Dylan let their fork clatter to the table. “What the hell is going on?”
“Rogers,” Vicky warned them.
“No, really, what is happening?” Dylan pushed back a few inches, chair legs scraping over the flagstone. “You’re not wearing shoes. You’re gardening. You’re not wearing makeup! You wear makeup to bed. You make the Marvelous Mrs. Maisel look like a homeless woman!”
“Dylan,” Vicky said more sharply.
“It’s okay, Vicky,” Celine said. “Dylan’s right. I’ve made a lot of changes.” She let out a breath, looking calm and clear-eyed. “A cancer scare will do that to you.”
Dylan froze. A chill raced through them. “A…what?”
Celine didn’t flinch. “Stage one breast cancer. Sounded like a death sentence at first, even though my doctor assured me it wasn’t. They caught it early; I was incredibly lucky. Only one round of chemo, but even that knocked me off my feet.”
“Chemo,” Dylan repeated in horror. “You had chemo?”
Celine nodded. “I’d always thought of myself as strong—someone who could push through anything—but the fatigue, the nausea, the fear…
It was humbling. And then there was the waiting.
Waiting for scans, results, assurances that yes, the treatment worked.
It felt like my whole life had been put on pause.
But somehow, I came through it. I still do. Every day.”
Dylan was speechless. Did their mother go through all that alone?
Vicky leaned forward to touch Celine’s hand. “I’m so sorry.”
“I was lucky,” Celine repeated firmly. “Not everyone makes it back from the kingdom of the sick to the kingdom of the well. Certainly the worst year of my life. But, in another way, also the best.”
“How so?” Vicky asked.
“Well, I realized every product I was using contained carcinogens.” Celine gave a wry laugh before sobering and looking at Dylan directly. “It was a wake-up call. It made me want to be honest. Take full responsibility for everything in my life.”
This sounded strangely loaded. Dylan frowned, unsure. “Meaning…?”
Celine inhaled a breath. “Like being honest about why your father and I divorced.”
“Huh?” Dylan blinked five times in a row, thrown. “Didn’t it just, like…fizzle out?”
“No. I know that’s what I implied, but that makes it sound like there was no one to blame,” Celine said.
“But there was someone to blame. Us.” Her gaze stayed unblinking.
“Your father and I stopped showing up for each other. Stopped asking what the other person needed. Stopped listening when the answers changed. Stopped being honest about our own needs. So eventually…we just stopped.”
Their mother’s words hit like a slap—sudden, sharp. Dylan had always thought there was no real reason why their parents’ marriage ended. But now, Celine was laying out a perfectly logical one.
“I was only twenty-three when I met your father,” Celine said.
“Twenty-seven when I had you. I was so inexperienced, I didn’t know what I could ask for.
What I needed. But in the end, I think I fell back on that inexperience as a sort of…
excuse. Then, when I went back to work, we both used our jobs as an excuse.
” Celine went on, “We made ourselves too busy to be present, meet the other’s needs. ”
Next to them, Vicky let out a soft breath. Dylan met her gaze. Between them, a million unspoken words that Dylan was desperate to hear.
Celine’s gaze stayed steady. “Love is a living thing. It needs light and air and attention.”
Dylan’s pulse was a tectonic rumble. It felt like something massive inside them was cracking apart. “Why are you telling me all this?”
“I suppose,” Celine said, “that I wanted you to know the truth. So that you could have love in your life, too.”
Was it possible they’d built their entire understanding of love on a lie?
They’d always internalized the idea that love didn’t last because the very concept of it was flawed and doomed to die on the vine.
Not that love was something that existed because of commitment.
Because of honesty. Because two people decided to be brave and show up.
“I’m sorry,” Celine said quietly. “For not listening. For so many things. I thought I was protecting you, but…I wasn’t.” She exhaled, her words tentative and careful. “I hope we can start fresh. Or at least…move forward in a better way.”
Dylan’s heart gave a violent lurch. It was a struggle to assimilate all the information. “Well—one plate of meatloaf isn’t going to, like, magically fix everything.”
“I know,” Celine said. “But if you’re open, I’d like to try to rebuild our relationship. I’d like to know you, Dylan. Starting with being nonbinary.” The word was spoken a little awkwardly, but their mother’s expression seemed genuine. “I’d love to hear about who you are now.”
Dylan looked at Vicky. She wasn’t smiling—just watching, as steady as the horizon.
“I think,” Dylan said, “I’m still becoming that person.”
Under the table, Vicky’s hand brushed their thigh. Just once. Just enough.