Chapter Thirty-seven
Flora
It’s logical to assume I, Flora Morgan, would not fare well in a long-distance relationship.
Every minute in NYC was sugarcoated with Sean beside me. Whenever I glanced sideways, he was there, tall, handsome, and very much mine.
It turned sour the second our plane landed in St. Bart’s. Over the next few days, while my family unwinds at our luxury resort, I sit by the pool all day, missing Sean too much to allow space for anything else.
My parents are usually off somewhere, chatting and coaching each other on work stuff (it’s both adorable and unsettling how much they love it), while Jeremy finds a new girl to hang out with every eight seconds.
At breakfast, he’ll launch into some “customer experience improvement” discussion, tossing around phrases like “from a consumer’s standpoint,” and my parents will laugh until their coffee goes cold.
Funny how much I used to crave their presence, but now that they’re here, I don’t feel any more involved.
So I channel my energy into accusing Sean of not texting me enough.
I’m fully aware of how unreasonable I am, but I can’t stop; it’s like when a character walks into a dark garage in a slasher movie.
“You can’t even squeeze out twenty seconds to hit Send?” I ask after breakfast.
“Didn’t I send you one right after I got up?” Sean sounds less patient every time this comes up. “I don’t want texting to turn into an assignment.”
Actually, if it had been an assignment, Sean would’ve aced it. Probably added citations too. After a few more rounds of back-and-forth, I slump at the edge of the pool. The call ends with me telling him I love him. It’s genuine, but it serves more as a peace offering. He echoes it right back.
“You look bored.” A deep voice interrupts my anxious, circular thinking.
I tear my gaze away from Sean’s last message and my self-pity. A guy with an olive complexion and green eyes tilts his head. “Wanna go find the best tiramisu in town?”
I wrap my towel tighter around myself. “I have a wonderful boyfriend.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
He’s wearing a midnight-blue polo shirt with a fox head stitched in one corner, leather penny loafers, and a Patek Philippe watch around his wrist. I wonder where he does his shopping.
A familiar, dimly remembered sense of excitement bubbles up in my chest, like Aladdin’s genie from the bottle.
The blue genie nudges me with his elbow and wiggles his eyebrows, saying, Look, this could be fun.
Not to mention I love good Italian dessert.
But that was before Sean.
“I don’t want to go, okay? Leave me alone.”
As the guy walks off in a huff, I unlock my phone. My dear darling boyfriend, I type, I miss you. I need you so much.
Not even my texts are funny. I’m desperate, even clingy, and no wonder Sean doesn’t bother to reply.
He’s spending time with his family as he should, maybe doing wholesome Christmas things like posing for ugly sweater photos in front of the tree (neither of which exists in my house).
I toss my phone back in my tote and go back to my hotel room, alone but proud of myself.
The old Flora would’ve flirted with the guy until he blushed, but I’ve outgrown that stage. I’ve matured.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m crying into my pillow.
It’s not because of the tiramisu invitation, not directly. I live in a grand palace, surrounded by everything I’ve ever dreamed of. But as I stand on the balcony of my golden cage, staring down, I picture escaping to the field outside, where I can roll around in the mud and rain.
Here I am, on vacation in my string bikini with tiny gem embellishments, basking in the sun, freaking out because a cute guy talked to me.
That’s when it hits me: the worst thing a girl can lose in a relationship isn’t her reputation, her friends, or even her freedom.
It’s herself.
To love Sean, I’ve lost myself.
* * *
My mom comes into my room later that day.
“How’s your evening?” She stretches her legs out across my bed. Hanging out with my mom is like having a sleepover with a friend you don’t see often, full of catching up, fashion tips, and zero lectures.
“It was okay. How was your dinner?”
The lines around her eyes soften as she recounts every ridiculous thing my dad said.
He honestly isn’t that hilarious, but his lame jokes are right up her alley.
The pearl studs in her ears catch the light with a soft pink sheen when she turns her head.
“And then we ordered another bottle of wine, and he—”
“Mom, how did you know Dad was the one?”
She stops midsentence, and I brace myself for profound wisdom. “I don’t know. A part of me is still waiting for an Italian man on a Vespa to sweep me off my feet.”
“You married at twenty-two! You must’ve felt something.”
“Yeah, I started throwing up a lot, then Jeremy came.”
“Mom, I’m serious.”
She places her hand on my wrist. The rose-gold rings on her fingers are icy. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong? I thought you had an amazing time with Sean in New York.”
“We did. That’s why . . . it’s so hard right now.”
Her smile fades. “Tell me all about it.”
“It’s a lot of things thrown together. I can’t be sure of anything anymore.
I rely on him for everything, but we don’t have anything in common, and we’ve been fighting lately.
He doesn’t even like sushi!” I stop, catching my breath after sharing our top three most epic fights and the tiramisu guy incident.
“But Sean’s a great guy, right? He has a noble heart.
It’s like, there’s nothing indecent or dirty about him. ”
“I seriously doubt ‘teenage boy’ and ‘not dirty’ belong in the same sentence.”
“Mom!”
“Okay. I mean, no one’s perfect.”
“He’s as close as anyone can get. I’m never going to do better than that.”
“Sometimes the best isn’t necessary the best choice.” She studies my face for a long moment. “Are you happy?”
“I am . . . I think. I don’t know.” I let out a long breath.
“I can’t tell you what to do, but remember you’re allowed to make mistakes. If you need time to clear your head, then do it.”
“Right.”
“I wasn’t sure if your dad was the one when I met him, but gradually, he became it after everything we went through together.
All those memories, those are the things that make him irreplaceable, you know?
” She makes everything seem so easy, even though she’s got her own struggles—working in a white-dominated industry, balancing an identity that doesn’t fit into clean boxes, and juggling urgent and important priorities like she’s stuck in some never-ending four-quadrant career matrix.
“After all, we raised two little rascals together. We bond through battling our common enemies. So, ultimately, I believe love grows through experience rather than a perfect match. You’re really young.
You don’t need to solve the ‘forever’ question.
You should be happy and carefree at your age. ”
“Sure,” I say, nodding slowly. “I’ll tell Sean the only way to solve our problems is to have a baby together.”
My mom kicks me. “Hey, what did you mean when you said you rely on him for everything?”
I swallow as I check out the potted orchid on the table, trying to focus on something else. My parents are my heroes, and they’ve given me so much. I never want to accuse them of anything.
But they’ve also unknowingly wounded me countless times over the years. “Mom . . . did you know you and Dad spend more time traveling than staying at home?”
My mom winces and her nose scrunches up. “We’re definitely thinking of cutting down. I’m—”
“I don’t need you to choose me over your career.
I’m proud of how you and Dad have fulfilling jobs and so many sources of meaning in your lives, and I’d never ask you not to prioritize that.
But I want you to be proud of me too.” My voice thickens.
They never say it. They never really show it either.
“When you’re here, why do you only ask me about my relationships? ”
Her mouth opens, then closes.
“Sean’s the only one who values my opinions. It’s like no one cares about what I want to do, or believes I can actually do it. He’s carrying the entire weight of my future on his shoulders.”
I want him to be my love, my friend, my parents, my mentor, my validation, my confidence—all while we’re still very different people. I’m suffocating both of us.
“I understand,” I say, taking a deep breath, “that Jeremy’s the golden child in this household, but every now and then, it’d be nice if you asked about how I’m doing at school too.
You asked Sean so many questions when you met him at dinner.
I can’t imagine what kind of wisdom you could give me if you helped me with my college applications.
You say you believe in me, but I don’t want passive support.
I want to be challenged. I want you to be involved, to ask me what I’m working on, to help me figure things out. ”
My mom stays quiet for a long moment before she responds.
“Your dad and I, we want to believe we’re doing the best we can.
We recognize we’re absent a lot, and we get lost in our work, but we convinced ourselves that the autonomy and problem-solving we experience in our jobs were valuable lessons for you too.
We assumed since Jer’s fine, you’d be fine too.
I didn’t realize . . . I’m sorry. And I’m sorry you didn’t feel comfortable bringing this up sooner.
We should’ve noticed you wanted more. We were so focused on giving you freedom we overlooked when you needed guidance.
That’s on us. I don’t want to keep making that mistake. ”
Red rims circle my mom’s eyes. For once, she doesn’t look like she’s in total control, and I immediately want to make her feel better. “Well, I’m fine most of the time.”