Chapter 32
SO, IT WAS DEFINITELY YOUR MOM.
DARCY
“How long has it been now, since you and Billie began this arrangement?” Gordon no doubt knows the answer, but—as I’ve come to learn over our many therapy sessions—he must think it’s important for me to say it out loud.
“About two weeks,” I answer as nonchalantly as I can muster. It’s been the best two weeks of my life, and he probably knows that, too.
“And you’ve been in Balsam Bay for well over a month now. What’s changed for you in that time?”
“Seven weeks. Uh, well, everything, I guess.” Not, I guess. I know.
Gordon doesn’t say anything while he waits for me to process.
“I bought a car. I started surfing more regularly. I’ve gotten to see what living five minutes away from my best friend is like when one or both of us aren’t working nearly every waking hour.
I’ve cooked more. Spent more time outside.
I’ve met a lot of people, especially thanks to this revitalization project I’ve been working on with Billie.
And then… of course… there’s Billie. I’ve spent a lot of time with her these last several weeks, too.
” I swallow, but the dryness in my throat remains, so I reach for my bottle of water.
“Those are all things you’re physically doing, but what’s changed for you in that time? In the way you feel about yourself, your life, your purpose?” His final word makes me flinch. It haunts me. Always has.
“It’s easy to feel more at peace when you’re on vacation.
It’s why I wanted my cottage here. I needed it to be far enough away so I couldn’t pop into the office.
I feel free here. Both completely out of my comfort zone, but also entirely at home.
It’s hard to explain because I don’t know that I’ve ever felt that before.
” I pause, trying to come up with a way to say the next words.
“And no one knows here. No one looks at me like I’m breaking, or already broken. ”
“You know you’re not, though, don’t you? Breaking or broken?”
“I know, Gordon. It felt like that’s what they all thought at work.
Suddenly, I was so fragile to everyone around me.
I think I even started to believe I was.
I mean, how much stress would set me off again?
How many hours could I work before my body decided it was too much?
” I still don’t know the answers to those questions, and that fact is enough to get my heart racing.
I hated how my boss said sabbatical like it was something to be ashamed of.
Hated the pity in his assistant’s eyes when I walked out of his office.
But my doctors—yes, I got more than one opinion, just to make sure—insisted if I didn’t take some time away, the panic attacks could become more frequent and likely more intense, too.
They all told me not taking care of myself now would only mean worse consequences in the future.
That it would be best to ease into the medication if I’m not also dealing with my number-one stressor: work.
“It’s not something you can quantify, Peter.” Gordon always defaults to my first name.
“I know, I know. But my brain doesn’t always fall in line with what’s logical, which makes no sense.
” I pause, preparing to say out loud the thought that has crossed my mind a few times in the last week.
“To answer your question, I feel more like myself here and now than I have in a long time. I’m starting to think maybe this isn’t about escaping, but finding where I’m truly supposed to be.
I’ve attached my worth to my job for a long time, we both know that.
And lately I’ve found it more and more in the mundane moments, not in how much money I can make someone else.
Using the thing I’m good at to help the town grow and thrive is far more rewarding than making already rich people richer.
And… I like it. I like the challenge of something new… ”
“But?” Damn therapist could hear that but from a hundred miles away.
“What if that wears off, too? What if I repeat the cycle again? What if this is another thing I throw my whole self into, and what if I end up hating and resenting it, too?” I scratch my cheek and find it damp.
Fuck. These thoughts weren’t fully formed in my head yet, but for some reason they come out of my mouth so easily.
“Do you resent your career? Do you hate your job?” There’s a hint of surprise in his voice, which is interesting, because of all the things I’ve admitted, I would think this is the least surprising.
“Yeah. I do,” I answer with no hesitation.
“I didn’t always, obviously, but now? Now that I’ve seen how much more there is for me outside of that bubble of pretentious dinners, constant phone calls, endless emails, nice suits, and making myself available twenty-four seven?
Fuck, yeah, I hate it. I don’t want to go back.
But I feel like I have to. It’s not fair to take off and leave other people to deal with my unfinished work.
” Even though that’s exactly what I’m doing by being here and taking time off in the first place, so… What the hell is my point?
“Hmm. If that’s what’s stopping you then you have to decide whether it’s enough.
And Peter.” He waits for me to look at him for this next part.
“You don’t need to decide anything right now, but take note of these thoughts and feelings.
Some of them might be new, but others I would wager have been with you for a while now. ”
I nod as he jots down a quick note. We move on to talking about my medication, and he agrees it’s something I should bring up with my doctor.
It’s been a hell of a time, figuring out what works and how much of it, balancing the use of Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors and Benzodiazepines, but I trust Gordon.
By the time I make it home, I don’t even remember the drive. How did I get here? I was so caught up, replaying the words I so easily said out loud in that office today, that I can’t recall a single other vehicle I shared the road with on the drive back to Balsam Bay.
After a workout, a protein shake, and a nap, my chest feels less like an overinflated balloon.
The lemon chicken skewers I’m attempting for dinner tonight are already marinated and ready for the grill with asparagus, so all I need to do is make the feta sauce and roast the potatoes.
I hope Billie likes it. I’ve cooked for her a couple of times, and even though I managed to fuck up our meal a few nights ago, she shrugged it off and made us grilled cheese instead while I washed the pots and pans.
It was uncomfortable, trying something and not being good at it.
The thought doesn’t get a chance to fester because my phone rings with an incoming video call. My smile doesn’t come as easily as usual, so I take a moment to slap my cheeks lightly and shake off the tension in my shoulders before accepting the call.
“Hey, Mom.” I force my lips into a grin, keeping my voice light.
“Peter, can you please tell your father he was definitely the one to leave the garage door open? It couldn’t possibly have been me because I always close it.” My dad, standing right behind my mom, rolls his eyes so hard all I see are the whites. Gross.
“Uh,” I mutter, unsure how to respond.
“Hi, son. How are you? Sorry about your mom’s lack of manners.”
I cough to mask my laughter as Mom scoffs loudly at him. Turns out, I don’t even have to fake a smile. These two and their shenanigans could break anyone out of a funk.
“I have manners, Robert. What I don’t have is a husband who can remember to close the garage door.” Mom turns to glare at Dad, who shrugs with the calm confidence of a man who’s been married long enough to know winning isn't the goal.
“Dana, love of my life, I closed it. I always close it.”
“You do not always close it. Remember when the raccoon got in and made a nice little nest? Whose fault was that?”
“That was 2014.”
“And yet the trauma remains. They had babies, Rob. Lots and lots of babies.”
I press my lips together, trying not to laugh still, because taking sides in a Rob and Dana Darcy dispute is a losing game. “I don’t think I’m qualified to—”
“You’re our son. You’re more than qualified,” Mom interrupts.
“That’s not how qualifications work,” Dad mutters, and I have to hold the phone away from my face for a second to collect myself.
The sound of the front door opening barely registers until Billie’s voice carries down the hall. “Hey, it’s just me. I—” She stops in the doorway, eyes flicking between me and the phone in my hand, clearly debating whether to stay or retreat.
“Who’s that?” Mom goes from combative to curious in zero-point-two seconds, her head tilting like she’s trying to see around me through the screen. “Peter, is someone there?”
“Yeah, Billie is here.” I say it casually, like it’s normal, because, to me, it is. She’s here. That’s a good thing.
But when I glance up at her, she looks like she’s been told there’s a pop quiz she didn’t study for. Her eyes go wide, and she takes a small step back, mouthing, “Your mom?” at me like I’m inviting her to rob a bank.
I wave her over, but she shakes her head, pressing into the doorframe as if she can meld into it.
“Billie! Oh, how lovely. Bring her here, Peter. I want to finally meet her.” Mom’s already adjusting her hair with one hand, as if Billie can see her.
“Mom, she’s not a puppy. I can’t just bring—”
“Nonsense. Billie, sweetheart, come say hi,” Mom calls out loud enough that Billie would hear her from the driveway, let alone ten feet away.
Billie’s jaw tightens, and the internal war plays out across her face. She’s going to kill me later. I’m sure of it. But she puts one foot in front of the other, crossing the room slowly, like she’s approaching a bear in the wild, rather than a five-foot-four woman on a phone screen.
When she gets close enough, I angle the phone so my parents—because my dad is quietly observing, too—can see her, and she gives the smallest, most un-Billie wave I’ve ever seen.
“Hi, Mrs. Darcy. Oh, and Mr. Darcy. Hi.” I run my hand across her back, setting it on her hip and squeezing lightly in the hopes she’ll relax a little. She doesn’t.
“Oh, call me Dana, please. Mrs. Darcy is my mother-in-law, and she’s a nightmare.” Dad snorts behind her, not bothering to deny it. “Now, Billie, settle something for us. If a garage door is left open and a husband swears it wasn’t him—”
“Mom. No.”
“What? I’m asking for an outsider’s perspective.”
Billie’s body leans into mine as she chuckles.
I squeeze her hip again, taking in the way she smiles brightly at my parents and their nonsense.
“Do you have a security camera on the garage?” she asks, and the silence that follows is so loud, I can hear the clock ticking in my parents’ kitchen through the phone.
Mom blinks. Dad blinks. They look at each other.
“We absolutely do,” Dad says slowly, a sly grin spreading across his face.
Mom’s expression shifts from confident to murderous in record time. “Robert, don’t you dare check that camera.”
“Oh, I’m checking it.”
“This conversation is over. Billie, it was so nice to meet you. I hope we can do this again in person when we come to visit. Peter, call me tomorrow. I love you. Bye!” The screen goes black before Dad can say another word, and Billie bursts out laughing beside me—a real, full laugh that fills every corner of the house with joy.
“So, it was definitely your mom,” she says, still grinning.
“Oh, without question.”
“They’re fun.” Her eyes sparkle as she turns to me, smile fading when her eyes lower to my mouth. “Hi,” she whispers before her lips meet mine in a hungry, desperate kiss.
I hardly register the sound of my phone hitting the floor.