Chapter Thirty-nine
Flora
I underestimated Sean’s determination to stay friends.
We’ve become friends in the most meaningless sense, where he treats it like a professional courtesy.
He gives me the forced smiles he reserves for random girls who hit on him, answers my questions politely but with that same detached tone.
He’s composed and distant, like a news anchor delivering a scripted segment.
There’s nothing special left between us. And that, to be written off entirely from his life, hurts more than anything.
My friends try to be supportive, even though they don’t really understand why I had to let him go.
They now talk about Sean like he’s some priceless piece of art at Sotheby’s that I’ve been outbid on.
Madison even goes so far as to say Sean’s not the worst (although she immediately follows up with, but I’ll hate him if you tell me to), while Josie encourages me to focus on myself.
As for Sean’s friends, Dylan quite bluntly stopped me one day before I could get to Sean and said, Look, it’s nobody’s fault, but the breakup wrecked him twice already.
Can’t you give our boy some space? Whenever I pass their table at lunch, I sense a wave of hostility, and the laugh that used to live in Jake’s eyes isn’t there anymore.
It’s probably all in my head, but I no longer feel comfortable enough to pull out a chair and join them.
Raymond calls one morning, waltzing right back into my life. “You need something fun to cheer you up. I’ll take you out.”
I make him promise to steer clear of anywhere that might remind me of Sean, so naturally, he takes me to an amusement park (after grumbling about standing in line with plebeians).
When I get off one of the rides, the person in front of us turns and a strand of dark hair falls across his forehead. It’s Sean’s hair.
Raymond makes his trademark disgruntled noise. “You’re not gonna cry, are you? Because if you do, I’m not the guy for that. I’m terrible at comforting people.”
I turn my face away. “No.”
“Good. I bet you’re ugly when you cry.”
Expecting anything sweet to come out of Ray’s mouth would be pure naivety. If this was Sean, he’d be so flustered. “I miss him.” My mood plummets faster than a roller coaster.
“Look, we can go home right now if you want.”
“But we just got here.”
He shrugs. “The whole point of coming here is to get your mind off him, but I see it’s not happening. Let’s go.”
We’re at the far end of the park, so we end up hopping on the tour train, which takes forever to reach the entrance.
It’s packed and the seats are stiff, so, predicably, Raymond complains the entire time.
He makes crude observations about the man sitting in front of us and his smelly feet (he strongly suspects they are), tells me every joke he can think of, and even though he’s not as hilarious as memory serves, the effort counts.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” I ask, since it’s a long ride, with stops at all the major attractions. “Are you pretending to be my friend so you can swoop in and catch me at a vulnerable moment?”
He snorts, chips in hand, crumbs falling all over himself. There’s never been a single ounce of sexual tension between us, but better to make sure.
“I’d feel so betrayed if you had a secret crush on me.”
“Pfft. I don’t. You know what they say—if you sleep with everyone, sooner or later you end up with no one to go to amusement parks with.”
The train stops, and the man with the alleged smelly feet stands up, swaying. Raymond jumps out of his seat to grab his elbow. “Careful there. This thing doesn’t come to a full stop. Have a good one!”
When he sits back down, he rolls his eyes. “I can finally breathe again.”
Sean never makes fun of other people like that.
I love that about him, but he won’t offer help either.
He’s a bystander, mostly hanging back unless something directly affects his inner circle.
It’s part of his elegant charm, but it’s not the only valid way to move through the world.
While Raymond can be insincere at times, he doesn’t hesitate to offer a simple act of kindness.
Sean also misjudged my friendship with Raymond. He’s not always right.
Maybe Sean isn’t perfect?
It’s the first time I’ve really let that thought land.
For so long, I convinced myself I was the only problem, that I had to be easier, quieter, and better.
I backed away from conflict because I wanted his love too much.
I avoided the big arguments but pestered him incessantly about small things like how often he texted.
I never invited the real conversations, and I guess he didn’t either.
The train lurches to another stop. Ray offers me the last chip, then pops it in his mouth without waiting for a reply.
“You miss him. I get it,” he says, reading my mind.
“But don’t sell yourself short like you’re the sole villain.
You’re not that powerful. Pretty sure it takes more than one confused teenager to destroy the most iconic love story of our time. ”
I nod. It’s hard not to carry all the blame, but maybe I can cut myself some slack. Maybe growth means not overcompensating and recognizing that Sean is still figuring things out too.
“And hey, at least now you can stop pretending to agree that Pepsi is the best drink on earth.”
I laugh. A light jab at Sean without reverence. “Yeah, he doesn’t just think Pepsi is okay—it’s his top choice.”
Ray grimaces. “You people have so much to learn.”
* * *
Carmen pours two glasses of sweet tea and slides one across the counter. “Are you feeling better?”
“Not really.” With my straw, I stab at the bottom of the glass where a clump of sugar has yet to disintegrate. “Everything is pointless.”
As the days drag on, I sink into a constant state of sorrow. If the acute pain of a breakup is screaming in agony, the aftermath is writing a sad letter with no one to address it to.
Carmen has listened to me vent over lemonade, peach iced tea, root-beer floats, and mason jar Arnold Palmers as I’ve moped around all spring, insisting that a good Southern drink will make me feel less like death.
“Sometimes I wish I’d never started anything with Sean. All I have left are memories. Memories and an astronomical amount of pain.”
“Just because it’s over doesn’t mean it was all for nothing.
You were amazing before you met him—you’re the kindest, most charming person I know.
And now your grades are improving, your college application was submitted in the best shape it’s ever been, and you even stood up to your parents.
Most importantly, you’re no longer willing to lose yourself to hold on to someone else.
Sean is wonderful, but you made the right decision, even though it was hard and painful. That’s admirable.”
Her voice is soothing, and even though her advice is a bit high-level, it still makes an impact.
I nod, holding back tears. She gives me space to think about what she said, and we finish the rest of our drinks in silence.
It’s the kind of silence that resembles a blank piece of paper, too impeccable to be ruined by any redundant words.
“Would you like to read a book?” Carmen asks.
I grimace. “You know I don’t read much.” Mostly the shampoo bottles in the shower when bored.
“Maybe it’s a good time to start. Books are stories.
How can you not enjoy a story?” She moves to one of the many bookshelves in her house, returning a moment later with a thin book by Francoise Sagan, Hello Sadness.
“Sagan reminds me of you. She’s been attributed with saying something like, ‘Money doesn’t fix everything, but if I had to cry, I’d rather do it in a Jaguar than on a bus. ’”
“I love her already.”
“She wrote this when she was a teenager, and it became an instant hit.”
“Well, the length is perfect,” I say, flipping to the last page. Only 127 pages.
“Yeah, you can finish it this afternoon. Tell me what you think later.”
I crack it open. There’s a paragraph about how sorrow feels, how it always seemed profound and almost noble, something heavy and poetic.
But now it’s different. It wraps around her like a delicate, silken web, soft and suffocating, setting her apart from everyone else, leaving her trapped in a world of her own.
How fascinating is this?
To find myself in someone else’s words.
* * *
As senior year trudges on, I get better.
The jigsaw puzzle Sean gave me has a bizarrely calming effect, like my brain’s version of a spa day.
I finish it in three weeks and, in a fit of newfound productivity, buy a couple more.
Meanwhile, I keep building my portfolio through my style blog.
I’ve posted a range of articles that I’m proud of, covering topics like the quiet luxury trend, how culture shapes style, how social media flipped fashion’s power structure, and the psychology of shopping.
Okay, so maybe these aren’t exactly thesis-level masterpieces, but I did spend several hours in the library doing research—actual research, not relying on my trusty friend Wikipedia.
I’ve also started working part-time at a clothing store. When my first paycheck hits, I take my parents out to lunch. They’ve been making an effort to be around more, and when they’re not home, they schedule one-on-one calls with me.
We settle in at a local bistro. Something nicer was out of budget. After taxes, social security, and Medicare, my paycheck isn’t exactly impressive. This is the best I can do—my biggest act of generosity is sparing them a trip to the Cheesecake Factory.
Dad picks up the menu. “Is there a limit on spending?”
“Yes. You each have a forty-dollar limit. Including drinks.”
Mom raises eyebrows. “With or without tax and tip?”
Dad grins. “This reminds me of pharma compliance rules. Dining with physicians always has a strict spending cap.”
Mom nods. “Right, and alcohol can’t exceed thirty percent of the bill.”
“Exactly. Don’t mess up the ratio,” I say.
Dad pretends to look concerned. “So if I were to, say, order a steak . . .”
I tut. “Then you’d be violating company policy and washing dishes in the back. I suggest the soup.”
They laugh. “We raise a daughter, put her through school, give her a good life, and the moment she gets her own paycheck, she feeds us soup.”
As the food arrives, Mom steers the conversation back to my work.
Neither of my parents have ever worked in retail, and they have loads of questions, starting with my dad: “How does the store track performance? Do they set individual sales targets?” and followed by my mom: “What’s the biggest bottleneck in your day-to-day workflow? ”
I lean back. “I said I wanted to be challenged, but for now, can you chat with me like my parents instead of giving me a performance review? Dial it back down a little, would you?”
“We’re trying!” Mom laughs.
Dad adjusts his tone. “Fine. No KPIs, no metrics. Just casual parent-child conversation. So . . . what would you say is your biggest strength in the role?”
“Dad!”
“Okay, okay—serious question. Do you at least like the job?”
“I do. But I can’t believe how much folding needs to be done. I’ll spend an hour making everything look perfect, and then a customer walks in, grabs a sweater, unfolds five others, and leaves without buying anything. And don’t even get me started on fitting rooms.”
“You know, it’s funny,” Mom says, “considering how you never used to fold your own clothes growing up.”
Dad nods sagely. “Turns out, the amount of clothes a person folds in their lifetime is constant. If you don’t fold your own as a kid, karma makes you fold other people’s clothes for them.”
“Wow. That’s profound,” I say. “You should write a parenting book.”
Dad leans back, satisfied. “I’ll call it The Unfolding Truth.”
“Subtitle: Why You Should Do Your Own Laundry Before Life Makes You,” Mom adds. “Hey, has working there made you want to shop more or less?”
“Oh, being around all those beautiful clothes absolutely makes me want to shop. When things come in, I start mentally putting outfits together.” I gesture at the plates on the table. “But I just blew my entire check on this meal because you insisted on ordering steak, Dad.”
Dad pauses midbite, looking guilty but not really. He pats me on the shoulder. “Welcome to adulthood.”
* * *
By the end of March, when I receive my acceptance letter from NYU, I’ve done four more puzzles.
Carmen introduces me to a few more complex women, including Lady Chatterley, Madame Bovary, Eugénie Grandet, Thérèse Raquin, and Anna Karenina.
She says we’ll start with European classics and then move on to modern literature.
Besides strengthening my bonds with my core friend group, I party a little, but no rebound relationships this time.
Heartbreak is something I must face on my own.
I call Sean to share the news. He congratulates me but refuses to take any credit for it.
“Can I buy you dinner, or at least coffee?” I ask. “To thank you properly.”
“That’s really not necessary.”
“I miss you. I want to know how you are.”
“I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”
My stomach churns, but I try to keep it light. “You don’t talk to me anymore. What have you been doing lately?”
There’s a long pause before he speaks. He tells me he got in everywhere he applied to, obviously.
“And I helped my grandfather build a boat. It’s something he’s always wanted to do.
His health’s not great, so the goal’s to finish it before I go to college.
” Three sentences in and his tone shifts.
“Honestly, this is a depressing topic for me. Let’s drop it. ”
After a short silence, I try again. “I hear you’re much better at German now.”
He responds with a string of rapid German sentences. I don’t catch a word, but his accent seems right on. “I have no idea what you said, but I’m guessing you’re going to impress German girls with that.”
“I don’t need to speak German to impress them. Some things are universal.”
For a fleeting second, he sounds like his old self. It’s such a delight to hear.
“I’ve been taking AP Fashion History,” I say.
“I heard. That’s pretty cool. Taking it senior year, second semester, no less.”
“It took some convincing to switch out my free period, but this is my first AP class ever. A milestone for me.”
“Good for you. Just 7,999,999,999 more classes to go before you’re on my level.”
Ah, an inside joke.
We’re going to be okay.
“Can we hang out?” I ask.
He’s silent for a second.
Just when I think there’s hope, he says, “Not yet.”