chapter 44
Sebastian
Those are all good memories; but I’ve got plenty of crappy ones as well.
I try not to think of those memories as I pull up at the little white house on Pleasant Street.
The blue trim is peeling in some spots, and the big bush to the right of the porch is overgrown, in desperate need of a trim.
But there are a few flowerpots on the porch, bursting with colorful hydrangeas, and I remind myself why I’m here as I put the Raptor in park.
I’m here to see Mom. This has nothing to do with him.
A bit of relief goes through me when I start up the walkway and peek around the side of the house: Dad’s truck isn’t here, just the silver Toyota Highlander I bought Mom for Mother’s Day a couple years back.
Dad was so pissed about that. Mom’s old car was a piece of shit, and I didn’t want her driving around in that thing anymore; it was about a mile away from abandoning her on the side of the road.
But when I surprised her with the Highlander, Dad just scoffed at me and made a passive-aggressive comment about how nice it must be to be able to throw money around.
Not like I’ve paid to have his truck fixed multiple times over the years . . .
I jog up the front stairs to the door and pull the screen open, then rap my knuckles against the wood a couple times before opening the door and calling out, “Hey, Ma, it’s me.”
“I’m out back!” she calls, her voice muffled through the house.
I peel off my Vans and leave them next to the door; even though this house is old and small and could really use a reno, Mom keeps it up, and even now, I can see subtle vacuum marks in the living room carpet.
I pass through the kitchen and out the back door, which leads to a tiny backyard, where Mom has turned a narrow slab of concrete into a thriving garden.
She’s just taking off her gardening gloves when I step outside, and immediately, she holds her arms out for a hug. I have to stoop over to wrap my arms around her, and it’s like I’m a boy again, held in my mother’s arms, with the smell of citrus and soil washing over me.
“Seb,” she says as she leans away, taking me by the shoulders. “I didn’t know you were coming today.”
Smiling, I lift one shoulder in a shrug. “Just wanted to see you.”
Lightheartedly, she slaps me with one gardening glove, leaving a smudge of dirt on my gray T-shirt. “You should’ve told me. I would’ve made lunch. You want something to drink? I made iced tea.”
“I’ll get it,” I tell her. “You sit down.”
She rolls her eyes at me but smiles as she eases herself into a patio chair.
In the kitchen, I pour us each an iced tea, noticing how much smaller and tighter the space feels now that I’m grown.
I toss ice cubes into each cup, then join my mom on the back patio.
As I sit down, she points to one of her gardening pots, where a butterfly is perched on a bright pink flower.
We watch the butterfly until it takes to the warm air and flutters away.
“Everything looks amazing,” I tell her.
After taking a sip of her iced tea, she nods. “It’s been a good year. My hot peppers are going crazy. You want to take some home with you?”
I have no idea how to cook with hot peppers, but it makes Mom happy when I at least try to use what she grows, so I nod. “Yeah, I’ll take some.”
We lapse into comforting conversation, the way we always do.
Mom has always been easy to talk to. And looking at her now, through a man’s eyes rather than a child’s eyes, I struggle to see how she hasn’t let my father dim her light.
But she just hums to herself and sips her iced tea, then points out a few bees buzzing around her plants.
“So,” I start after I’ve finished my tea and set it on the small patio table between us, “I . . . met someone.”
Mom turns to look at me. “You’ve met a lot of someones, Seb.” Her smile is small and teasing.
I let out a light laugh, my fingers drumming on my thighs. “Yeah, but . . . I think this one is different.”
The smile slips slowly from her mouth, and she leans forward in her patio chair, making it creak. Her brown eyes catch the sunlight despite the floppy gardening hat she’s wearing. “Really?”
I nod once. “Yeah. I wanted to tell you about her.” I reach into the pocket of my shorts and pull my phone out, then swipe through my photos until I get to the one that Remi sent me what feels like a lifetime ago, of her sitting in front of her vanity, makeup halfway done, black hair pulled up into a messy bun on the top of her head.
I hand Mom the phone, and she looks down at it, her mouth opening as she stares.
“That’s Remi,” I say.
Mom continues to stare, and without looking up at me, she says, “She’s beautiful, Seb.” Then, slowly, her brown eyes find mine. “But you’ve been with lots of beautiful women.” One of her eyebrows arches up at me questioningly. “What’s different about her?”
It sounds like such a simple question, but the answer is something I can feel better than I can articulate. For a moment, I watch a bee buzz around one of Mom’s potted plants—cherry tomatoes—then say, “She doesn’t want anything from me.”
I don’t look directly at Mom when I say it, but in my periphery, I see the small drop of her shoulders.
“She knows the best pizza joint in Vegas. She can skateboard way better than me. And . . .” I take a breath, then say softly, “And it just feels right with her. In a way no one else did.”
Now I look up, and my mom is staring back at me, eyes soft, my phone still clutched in her hands. She turns her gaze down to it again, and this time when she looks at the photo, I think she’s looking a bit closer, paying better attention.
“You really like this woman?” she asks softly.
And something about the word like doesn’t sound right to me. Because I feel so much more strongly for Remi than that. But before I can answer, I hear the front door open, and my stomach immediately clenches.
Mom looks up at me, and some of the wistful calm goes from her eyes.
Heavy footsteps tread through the house, and then my father leans out of the back door.
And I don’t miss that he’s still got his boots on despite Mom’s perfectly clean carpets.
It makes one of my hands curl into a fist on my knee.
“Didn’t know you were coming,” Dad says.
My eyes meet his. They’re the same brown as mine, though his are tighter around the corners, like he’s spent more of his life glaring at things than I have. Which is about right.
“Just stopping by,” I say.
Now that he’s home, I’m going to get the fuck out of here.
“I could make lunch,” Mom says quickly. “Sandwiches?”
I shake my head as I push to my feet. “Thanks, but no. I’ve gotta get going.” Gently, I take my phone from my mom’s hands, then lean over to press a kiss to her cheek. “The garden looks beautiful. I’ll pick up some of those peppers next time I come by.”
Because I sure as hell don’t want to wait around with my father while Mom harvests and packs them up for me.
My mom’s lips pull into a small frown, and a little twirl of guilt goes through me. I hate making her frown like that.
But she knows how things are between me and Dad. And it’s been a long time since she tried to fix it—you can only fail to mend something so many times before you finally admit defeat.
I pick up the two empty glasses of iced tea, then turn to step into the house. Dad is still lingering there in the doorway, and he moves aside just enough for me to squeeze through, like he’s still trying to make me feel small even though I’m nearly a head taller than him now.
Without speaking to him, I wash the glasses in the sink, then set them out to dry on the drying rack.
“Where are you running off to so fast?” he asks as I dry my hands on the dish towel hanging from the oven door.
“Not running,” I say, trying to keep my tone even. “Just have things to do.”
“More important things than having lunch with your mother? She misses you, you know. You never come around anymore.”
I almost say, I wonder why that is. But I bite the words back, draw myself up, and say, “See you around, Pops.”
Then I get the fuck out of there before he can try to bait me into a fight. That’s the last thing I want; it always makes Mom cry.
Out in my Raptor, I crank up the engine. When I glance back at the house, Mom is standing on the porch, lifting one hand to wave.
And I hate the feeling in my gut as I wave back, then drive away.
ON MY WAY HOME, I swing through LA to pick up lunch from my favorite taco truck, which is parked on a corner in the Arts District.
After paying and dropping a ten-dollar bill into the tip jar, I start back in the direction of the Raptor, then find myself remembering when I was here with Remi, and without making the conscious decision to do so, I start following the same path I walked with her that day.
It makes me feel closer to her, even though she’s a state away.
And the path leads me to the studio on the corner, with the For Rent sign still perched in the front window.
I stand on the sidewalk, staring up at the empty building. When Remi saw this place, her face totally changed. It was like she lit up from inside, and I could almost see her vision for this space taking shape in her blue eyes.
After we walked away, she didn’t bring it up again. But that’s one of those things I’ve learned about her: She’s independent as hell, and she doesn’t ask anyone else to help her achieve the things she’s chasing.
That independence is part of what I love about her.
My fingers tighten on the paper bag, crinkling it as I stand there on the corner staring up at the building.
Love.
That word feels a hell of a lot more accurate than like.
I narrow my eyes against the sun and the glint coming off the shiny windows, and I can picture her here, decorating this space, the door propped open and curtains billowing as she welcomes students to class.
It’s a ridiculous idea; Remi doesn’t even live here.
Her life is in Vegas, hundreds of miles from me.
I’m not sure she’d even want to live in LA.
There’s something about her that feels like the desert runs through her veins.
Maybe she’ll never want to be parted from it.
But I reach into my pocket anyway, still not entirely sure what I’m doing, and I dial the number on the For Rent sign. Then I hesitate. I look down at my phone, wondering if I’m just being stupid. No harm in just asking some questions though.
I hit the Call button and lift the cell to my ear.
It rings twice, and then a friendly woman answers.
“Kaufman Property Group. How can I help you?” the voice on the other end of the line says.
For a brief moment, I doubt myself again and consider just hanging up. Remi hasn’t even mentioned this studio again. Maybe it was just some random idea she had as we were walking by.
But then I see Remi’s eyes, that look she got, the way she peered through the window into the vacant space.
So I draw a breath and say, “I have some questions about one of your rental properties.”