Chapter 5
I squint and survey the room. Everything is minimalistic and organized, just how I like it.
A friend once called my bedroom a hotel room; I considered that high praise.
It consists of a king-size bed, two sleek bedside tables, a dove-gray dresser standing sentinel against white walls, and two stark black-and-white ocean prints I snagged on Etsy.
No clutter, no mess. Just like my personal life.
Speaking of…
I roll over. The other side of the bed is empty; the sheets are cold.
Thank God. At least I didn’t wake up next to a stranger.
I glance down. I slept in my clothes—not ideal. But no mascara streaks, no mystery stains, no injuries, no unfamiliar jackets on the floor. So far, so good.
I roll my tongue around my mouth and taste cotton with a hint of tequila. But no bile, no aftertaste of regret. Didn’t throw up. Two for two.
I force myself upright and stumble toward the kitchen, tripping over the heels I’d kicked off in the doorway.
I pour a glass of cold water, sprinkle in orange electrolyte powder, and lean against the counter as I chug it down, blinded by the bright-blue sky and willing the pounding in my head to subside.
Then I see it—the blinking message light on my phone, like a bomb about to detonate.
I brace myself and open my messages, expecting to see a 2:21 a.m. “u up?” text to a past mistake. But to my surprise, there’s nothing. I exhale. Another bullet dodged.
Then I spot the message to my mother.
Oh no.
Fragments from last night rush back: my conversation with Carlos, talk of going to Minnesota, adventure.
I open the thread.
Hey Mama! I’m coming to Minnesota! ???????? Woohoo! Dinner tomorrow in Wayzata?
Her response is immediate, enthusiastic.
Fantastic! I made a reservation at 6 PM at Cov.
Not only am I suspended from my job, but now I’ve apparently volunteered to haul my hungover self to a place I swore I’d never go back to…to stay with a family I haven’t seen in years. Perfect.
My phone rings, setting off an explosion in my head. I clear the sleep from my throat. “Hello,” I say with the enthusiasm of someone being waterboarded.
“Hi, sweetheart! Did I wake you?” asks my mother, perpetually cheerful.
“No, I’m up. Just finishing packing,” I lie.
“You haven’t left yet?”
I run to my closet, grab my travel bag, and pull the zipper back and forth, letting the sound carry through the receiver. “Not yet, but I’m just zipping up my bag. I had a morning Pilates class that ran a little long. Walking out the door now.” Another lie.
“Okay. You’d better hurry if you’re going to make dinner. You know how Chicago traffic gets.”
“It’s Saturday, so I think I’ll be all right. But yes, I’ll hustle.”
“I can’t wait! I’m so happy I get to see my baby.”
I roll my eyes but smile despite myself. Thirty years old and I’m still her baby. “I’m excited too. Okay, I’ve gotta get going, but I’ll see you at six.”
“See you then.”
I hang up and collapse onto the bed. Nothing like driving six hours with a vicious hangover. Nice work, Charlotte.
* * *
Two hours later, after a shower and a quick stop for some gifts for my hosts, I’m roaring up I-90 on my way to the Land of Ten Thousand Lakes.
I snatch one of the two cheeseburgers from my McDonald’s value meal—the ultimate hangover cure—and roll down the windows.
It’s a stunning day: nothing but blue sky, sunshine, and bright-green farmland.
There’s something grounding about the scent of fresh-cut grass and the sight of lazy cows meandering through pastures.
I envy their slow, unbothered existence. The mile markers flick by—250, 249.
The fresh summer air breezes through me, the headache softens, and suddenly this trip to Minnesota doesn’t seem like such a big mistake.
I fire up my Adele playlist and sing “Hello” at stadium level with a cheeseburger chunk stuffed in my cheek, trying to ignore the drivers passing me and staring like I’m a psychopath.
As I speed down the highway, music humming through the speakers, my mind drifts, faded memories rippling through me like waves across a lake.
Our old house comes first: a white Cape Cod with baby-blue shutters and a rich green yard rolling down to the lake.
I remember the creak of dining chairs, the scratch of forks on porcelain, the smoky tang of pine logs burning on winter nights.
Cold air that bit at your face on Christmas Eve.
The railing on the stairs that wobbled dangerously if you leaned wrong.
Barbecue smoke and fireworks dazzling the sky.
The creamy, salty flavor of hot dish—what Minnesotans call casserole.
I remember my mother. Her strawberry-blond hair brushing my forehead as she kissed me awake in the morning.
Cheering for me when I struck out at softball.
Holding my hand as our skates sliced across the lake’s frozen surface.
Her car screeching up the driveway, late again from the bank.
Dozing off mid-equation at the kitchen table, sometimes just doing my homework herself, too tired to teach.
Holding me when I cried. Telling me, “Mom will make it better.”
And my father…before. His eyes used to shine like sunlight catching on a raindrop.
A perfect curl always flopped onto his forehead, Superman-style, no matter how many times he pushed it back.
I loved the scratch of his beard when he hugged me, the crisp aloe vera of his shaving cream.
He called me “Cha-cha” and mussed my hair like it was our secret handshake.
I’d sit on the landing steps outside his office, practically vibrating with excitement, listening for the rhythmic snap of his fingers on the keyboard.
Then came the signal: ice cubes clinking in a glass, the glug of scotch.
That meant he’d finished a chapter, and it was our time.
Sunset boat rides across the lake. He’d point out birds, cast a line, though we both knew we wouldn’t catch anything—we liked the pretending.
Later, we’d slump together on the porch swing, his arm snug around my shoulders, watching the sky go violet, waiting for Mom to come home.
It was almost enough to believe we were happy.
Almost.
But even then, cracks ran beneath the surface, hairline fractures creeping through all of us. My parents knew it. And I knew it. I was the evidence.
I rode the bus alone. Knees too sharp, arms too long, always tripping, always apologizing. I’d bury my face in my journal and try not to exist too loudly. The other kids called me Char-klutz. I never corrected them.
At recess, I sat under an oak tree, doodling quietly while the rest shrieked and kicked up dust and ignored me. When someone spoke to me, I stared at my shoelaces until they went away. They always did.
Kids can intuit that kind of thing—the shyness, the silence, the wanting-to-be-left-alone. It clings to you like sweat.
Meeting Olivia saved me.
I remember I was ten, the first day back after a long weekend.
The cafeteria served chicken fingers on Tuesday, so needless to say, that was the highlight of my week.
I sat alone, third table on the left, where I always sat.
A bank of windows lined the wall there, so I could sit, eat my meal, and stare through the crossed panes, dreaming I was somewhere else.
Occasionally, kids would throw something at me or fire off a snarky comment as they passed, but mostly they left me alone.
I munched my chicken fingers and wondered if I could make it through another eight years of this.
Then Olivia appeared, pure sunshine.
She wore a neon-yellow dress that glowed against her black skin, with matching clips in her braids and sneakers splashed with the same bright hue.
I still remember how everyone reacted when she entered, like a celebrity had walked into the cafeteria.
The lunchtime din dropped to a hush. Boys stared slack-jawed.
Girls adjusted their outfits, immediately feeling inferior in her presence.
She was the sun, and we were orbiting planets.
And it wasn’t just how she looked. It was how she carried herself—like she’d attended the school for years, like she was the most popular girl on campus. Not a trace of nervousness. No sideways glances, no fidgeting fingers or hair swipes. She knew who she was and exactly where she wanted to go.
A smack hit my face, breaking my trance. Someone had thrown a clump of macaroni and cheese that hit me square on the forehead. Olivia, this goddess I’d never seen before, looked at me. I felt my face rush red. I expected her to point, to laugh, to join the rest of them, but she didn’t.
She just looked at me and walked toward my table.
I’ll never forget her striding in my direction—orange plastic tray in hand, broad smile, shiny cheeks, braids bobbing.
I even glanced behind me, assuming she must be meeting someone else.
But she sat down across from me, handed me a napkin, and said, “Hi. I’m Olivia.
What’s your name?” To her, it was effortless and simple; to me, it was a lifeline.
We were best friends from that day forward. We’d ride bikes together, swim in the lake together, have “crafternoons” together. She loved taking pictures and videos of everything we did.
But the bond was always fragile. Because Olivia was so popular and I was so not, the relationship always seemed unbalanced.
She was the star; I was the shadow, the sidekick, the afterthought.
As much as I tried, I couldn’t squash the jealousy.
Everything about her—her personality, her beauty, her smile, her laugh—seemed so big that I couldn’t help but feel small.
Still, I’m not sure she ever sensed that.
She always treated me like an equal, and I assumed we’d be friends forever.
Until she fell. And everything shattered.
I wonder what she thinks of me now. If she thinks of me now.
A thrill runs through me at the thought of showing her the new me, the strong, independent woman I’ve become: tall, professional, in command. Still klutzy, but I can’t be perfect.
Will she remember me as vividly as I remember her?
Has she thought of me all these years, the way I’ve thought of her?
I’ve considered looking her up online countless times, but something deep inside me prevented it—as though subconsciously I wanted to preserve the perfect memory.
Is she the same Olivia I remember from her last visit?
Does she still possess the same irrepressible verve for life, or has the world broken her since?
I don’t know whether I could handle that.
I turn the volume up on the stereo to scare away the dark thoughts. “Set Fire to the Rain” booms through the car so loudly my chest rattles. I roll down the windows, hoping the ninety-mile-per-hour wind will rip the questions from my mind.
But they hang on.
I might not be ready for this.
But I’ve come too far to turn back now.