CHAPTER 16 – LIGHTS, CAMERA, ACTION! #2
The meal ends with more wine, more laughter, and a decadent chocolate cake Tara brought “as an offering to the gods of domesticity.” But I taste nothing after the mention of my mother.
My mind is already off in the dark, winding through old memories: Nancy slicing fruit in the kitchen, her hands quick and sure; Dad’s booming laugh echoing down the hall; the safe, small universe I used to love, now gone and probably never coming back.
After Tara and Jeremy leave, Jack helps me clear the table.
I stack platters, avoiding his gaze, and load them into the dishwasher with more force than necessary.
Then, the leftovers. There’s nothing more depressing than a sink full of chicken bones and cold, greasy plates at midnight.
The afterglow from dinner is gone, replaced by a thick layer of exhaustion and something sharp, sad, and angry that I can’t shake.
Jack stands at the sink, methodically scraping plates, rinsing, stacking them in the dishwasher with military precision.
I gather glassware, working in parallel but not in sync.
The wine stains on the rim of my glass look like bruises under the overhead lights.
We don’t talk. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, but it isn’t happy either. It just exists, heavy, until it breaks like a dam and I’m leaning against the counter, hands shaking, and I can’t hold it together anymore.
“I miss my parents, Jack,” I say, and the words are a confession, a surrender. “Even after everything they said to me. I can’t just… I can’t just cut them off. I thought I could, but—”
I don’t finish. I don’t need to. He puts down the dish he’s drying, comes over, and wraps his arms around me from behind, pressing my back into his chest. I feel his heartbeat through my spine, steady and massive, as if he’s trying to lend me a few extra beats to keep me upright.
“You should call your mom,” he says quietly, his lips warm against my hair. “Nancy. She’s probably hurting just as much as you. Maybe more.”
I shake my head, but he doesn’t let go. “She doesn’t want to hear from me. She said—”
He turns me around, thumbs under my jaw, making me look him in the eye. “People say things when they’re scared, Eliza. Sometimes they mean the opposite.”
“I don’t want to make it worse.”
“You won’t.” He wipes a tear from my cheek with the pad of his thumb. “But if you want, I can stay out of it. You can talk to her alone. I won’t listen. Whatever you want.”
I study his face, the gleaming blue of his eyes, straight nose, and square chin. His gaze is sincere, and he’s not just humoring me. He means it. He’s giving me the runway, but letting me choose if I want to take off or taxi back to the hangar.
“You think it’s a good idea?” I say, voice wobbly.
He nods, never breaking eye contact. “They’re your parents, Eliza. Of course it’s a good idea.”
I exhale, the relief almost painful. “Okay. Maybe tomorrow.”
He hugs me again, then steers me upstairs, arm around my shoulder, warm and heavy.
That night, Jack falls asleep first, because that’s what he does—hits the mattress and is out in three minutes, like a man.
I lie next to his huge form, wide awake, his arm draped over my waist like a weighted blanket, and watch the streetlights flicker against the ceiling.
My mind spins endless scenarios: Nancy hanging up on me, Nancy sobbing, Nancy cursing me out.
Or maybe just silence, and the terrible void that follows.
I try to script what I’ll say: “Hi Mom, it’s me, I’m not dead, sorry I ruined your reputation in town, sorry I blew up the family, sorry I—” It’s pointless. All I want is to hear her voice, just once, and have her say it’s not all lost.
I must drift off at some point, because the next thing I know it’s morning, and Jack is already in the kitchen, making eggs and reading the news on his phone.
He’s in boxers and a soft t-shirt, bare-legged, hair still wet from the shower, and so handsome, as always.
The sight makes me feel steadier, like the world hasn’t ended and maybe won’t.
I slide onto a stool at the island, phone in hand, heart hammering.
“Coffee?” he asks, pouring without waiting for my answer. I nod, wrap my hands around the mug, and stare at my phone until the screen goes black, then tap it awake again. And again.
Jack comes around the counter, sets a hand on my shoulder, gives it a little squeeze. “You got this, sweetheart.”
I nod, though I’m not sure I do. “I’ll do it now,” I say, mostly so I can’t take it back.
I stand, walk to the window, and dial. The ring is so long it feels endless. My mouth goes dry. Then—click—someone picks up.
“Hello?”
It’s my mom. Nancy’s voice is thinner, raspier, like she’s aged five years in as many weeks.
“Mom?” I say, and my own voice breaks. “It’s me. I was wondering if you’d like to get coffee. Just coffee. That’s all.”
There’s a silence so wide I can hear her breathing.
Finally, she says, “Okay. When?”
I look at Jack. He raises an eyebrow in support.
“Whenever you want,” I say, and it comes out so hopeful that it almost makes me cry.
“Today,” she says, then, “Ten-thirty. Calico Café.”
I nod, forgetting she can’t see me. “I’ll be there.”
Click. She hangs up.
I stand there, phone to my ear, breathing in and out. Jack comes up, rubs my back. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”
I look at him, then at the clock, and realize I have forty minutes to get ready.
“Wish me luck?” I say, faking a smile.
He kisses my cheek, then pours more coffee. “You don’t need it, Eliza. But you’ve got it anyway.”
I take the mug, the phone, and a shaky sense of hope, and head upstairs to get dressed, wondering if I’m about to walk into a second ambush or the first step of forgiveness.
The Calico Café is one of those places that can’t decide if it wants to be a small-town diner or a third-wave coffee temple.
The smell inside is equal parts burnt toast, cinnamon, and hipster ambition.
I arrive fifteen minutes early, because I can’t handle the possibility of walking in and seeing my mother already there, watching me approach.
I want to be the watcher, not the watched.
I scan the room, then pick a corner table without too many people nearby.
God knows, given the subject of our discussion, that I don’t want anyone listening in.
Plus, from here, I can see the door, the whole room, the barista with a man-bun and a lip ring, and the row of windows that look out over the frozen river. I’m in control of this situation.
I order a latte, extra hot, and nurse it while my heart does speed drills in my chest. I adjust and readjust the cup on its saucer, then rearrange the little sugar packets and napkins so they form a neat, defensible perimeter.
I check my phone twice, though I know there’s nothing new.
I text Jack: “I’m here. Will report back.
” He replies instantly: “You’ve got this, sweetheart. ”
At precisely 10:29, I see my mom’s car pull up.
For a second, I don’t recognize the woman who gets out.
Nancy Shaw is thinner than I remember, her cheeks hollowed a little, her posture less upright.
She’s wearing yoga pants, a parka zipped to her chin, and instead of her usual perfect bob, her hair is yanked back in a ponytail that says “I’m in a hurry.
” She scans the parking lot, then the street, before coming in.
She spots me instantly, and I see her take a deep breath before walking over. The performance starts immediately: her stride purposeful, her face arranged in that neutral, unreadable way that says, “I’m not here to cause a scene.”
“Hi, honey,” she says. Her voice is the same, but less force behind it. “You look good.”
“Hi, Mom,” I say. I want to stand and hug her, but I don’t. Instead, I offer a small wave and motion at the empty chair.
She sits, unzips her parka but doesn’t take it off. The barrier stays up.
“I got a drink already,” I say. “Want anything?”
She shakes her head, eyes on the table. “I’m fine.”
We stare at each other. The silence is awkward, then just oppressive. I count the seconds—one, two, three—and then fill the gap.
“How’s Dad?” I say, keeping my voice neutral.
She shrugs, fiddles with a napkin. “He’s okay. Still angry about everything.”
I nod, not surprised. “You look tired, Mom.”
She snorts, and the sound is almost a laugh. “I am tired, Eliza. I haven’t been sleeping much.”
I don’t know what to say, so I default to the weather. “It’s supposed to snow tonight.”
She looks at me, the ghost of a smile on her lips. “Of course you’d know the forecast. You always hated being caught unprepared.”
That feels like an olive branch, so I take it. “Yeah. I, uh, actually got a snow shovel for the car. Jack said—”
She tenses at his name, the small softness erased. “Are you still seeing him?”
I hesitate, but only for a second. “Yes. He’s good to me, Mom. I know he’s older, and he’s dad’s friend, but Jack loves me. That has to count for something.”
Nancy doesn’t answer. She picks at the edge of the napkin until it frays, then flattens it out again, careful and precise.
I try again. “I’m sorry about how things happened. I know it was a shock. But—”
She cuts me off, voice soft but iron underneath.
“It’s not just a shock, Eliza. It’s a betrayal.
Your father can’t even say your name right now.
He refers to you as ‘the girl’ now, like you’re a stranger.
Or dead.” She swallows, eyes glistening.
“And Jack—he was supposed to be like an uncle to you. Not your…” She trails off, the word unspoken but heavy in the air.
I feel my face flush, the old shame crawling up my neck, but I try to stand my ground. “I love him, Mom. And he loves me. That’s not something I’m sorry for.”