Chapter 2
TWO
The warm air smells like freshly cut grass and Marvin’s famous croissants—usually enough to have me floating down the street.
But Mom’s text has me thinking of a zillion different things she might tell me, like she and Dad are moving again, one of them is sick, they don’t think Gia should get married anymore, they lost their life savings at the casino and have to move into my one-bedroom apartment with me. The potential catastrophes are endless.
I shut the door of my Prius and head down Braedale, past the bridal shop where Gia picked her princess gown, and past Marvin’s Baked Goods, a.k.a. the yummiest bakery in Driftwood Cove. I’m too tense to truly admire the new geranium-and-pansy arrangements above the lampposts.
People stroll like they’ve got all the time in the world, kids race by on bikes, and everything screams charming small town. But my nerves are knotted, and dread has made itself comfortable right in the pit of my stomach.
I cautiously push open the pale green door and step into Chrissy’s café—a.k.a. the last place on earth Mom would ever normally want to go. But here she is now, smiling at me from across the room, patting a place next to her on the plush mocha-brown sofa.
Who is this woman and what did she do with my mother?
Whatever’s up with her, I don’t think it’s going to be good.
She looks good though. Shockingly, Andy might be right about the tummy tuck because she looks svelte—completely transformed since the last time I saw her, two months ago.
And just to be clear, I tried, hard, to get her to spend time with me but she always had an excuse about why it wasn’t a good day.
Mom’s shoulder-length hair is dyed a beautiful shade of buttery blonde, and she’s got on a royal blue blazer, crisp white top, and a thick gold necklace, which makes me glad I didn’t end up going home to change into sweats after work after all.
I’d look frumpy in comparison. Mom’s makeup has been carefully applied, unlike her usual quick swipe of mascara and dab of lip gloss.
Less than a year ago, Mom was dressing older than her sixty-one years—cardigans, sweaters with polka dots, long shapeless dresses.
This has a somewhat-late midlife crisis written all over it.
I order my velvet rose latte with extra foam and sit down next to her, very cautiously, in case there’s a hidden camera crew and I’m being pranked. I set my steaming mug down on one of the wooden coasters and brace myself for whatever’s about to happen.
Mom wraps her arms around me and kisses my head. I recognize the scent she’s wearing as Chanel Chance. No more vanilla body spray for her, apparently.
“So good to see you, Lexi,” she says, placing her hand on my shoulder for a moment. She’s not usually very touchy-feely . . . what the hell is going on here?
“You too.” I sit up straight and take a deep breath. Time to get to the bottom of this. “So, every time I’ve asked to stop by the last few weeks, you tell me you have plans. Now you look like you just stepped out of an issue of Vogue. Are you ready to tell me what’s up?”
“Can’t a mother ask her daughter out for a cup of coffee without there being something up?” she responds with a mysterious smile, then looks me up and down. “You look lovely, Lexi. That blouse really brings out your eyes—they look even more blue than usual. Remarkably blue.”
“Thanks,” I murmur.
“Have you done something different with your hair? It looks so shiny and healthy.”
“I washed it,” I say dryly, twisting my long brown waves back into my go-to workplace bun to shut down this conversation so we can get to the real point of this mysterious meetup.
“How was work today?”
I cringe. Once I start talking about it, I can go on for hours. I open my mouth to respond, then pause. Mom’s stalling.
“Same as always,” I say, biting back any other words about my job. If Gia weren’t busy at her final wedding cake tasting, she’d have already forced Mom to get to the point. Time to channel that energy. “You’re acting weird and it’s making me nervous. What’s going on?”
She ignores my question and looks into my eyes like she genuinely wants to catch up. “How’s Jayden doing? Are you two planning any hot dates any time soon?”
“What?” I splutter. “Hot dates?” It’s a good thing I didn’t have coffee in my mouth when she asked that because I would have spit it out—first, because I’ve never heard my mom use the word “hot” to describe anything besides the temperature; and second, because Jayden and I have a relationship that’s built on love and common interests, and our dates usually consist of dinner at Nova followed by a walk along the pier and trivia night at Maverick Pub. Not really what anyone would call hot.
Mom completely dismisses my reaction and turns to look across the room at the chalkboard affixed to the brick wall with the daily specials listed on it. “Oooh. Those snacks sound yummy. Do you want a lemon poppyseed scone?”
“No, I would not, thank you very much.” Unbelievable. The last time she stalled like this was when she and Dad decided to downsize and sell the house Gia and I grew up in and she was having a hard time breaking it to us. “Mom, please, just spit it out.”
Mom readjusts her position and takes a small sip of her latte. “Well, I’m sure you’ve noticed that your father and I have been growing apart lately.”
Growing apart? This is a complete gut punch.
An involuntary jolt of electricity runs up my spine as if my body understands what this means before my brain does.
But . . . she and Dad are solid. The most solid couple I’ve ever met.
People aspire to be like them. If Mom knew what hashtags were, she’d be interested to know that Gia refers to her and Dad’s marriage as #relationshipgoals.
“Ummm . . . no. What do you mean? You guys just planted a vegetable garden together. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Mom’s eyes soften and she tries to hold my hand, but I move it away in stunned slow motion. She clears her throat. “Well, honey, we do have a friendship, but we don’t have the . . . fiery passion that we used to have.”
“Probably because you’ve been married for so long. You’re both older now. No offense but who else your age has something like that?”
“I do,” Mom says with a shrug.
My face heats up and I shake my head. “You just said that you don’t. What do you mean you do?”
Mom blinks quickly and stares down at the table, tracing the lines in the wood grain with a fingertip. “I do. Have a fiery passion. Just . . . not with your father.”
“What?” I say again, but way louder this time, and everyone in the café looks over at us.
“Quiet,” Mom whispers, cringing and patting my shoulder.
It briefly registers that her face is much less wrinkled than it used to be.
Botox? What is happening? Gia would be toppling tables by now, which is probably why Mom met with me when her most critical kid is unavailable.
Looks like I’m the guinea pig she’s experimenting on first. Great.
I take a long, shaky breath. “I have no idea why you brought me somewhere like this to tell me news like that!” I exhale in a harsh whisper. “How did you expect me to react?”
“I’m sorry, Lexi. But I’ve found someone else. And we’re happy together. We satisfy each other.”
“Satisfy each other!” I repeat, far too loudly again, and now people are hooked—everyone’s facing us, eager to see how this conversation’s going to unfold.
A petite brunette woman at a table near the barista station appears to be recording us on her phone.
I glare at her and flap my hand in a signal to stop but she pretends not to notice.
“Yes,” Mom answers. She bats her long eyelashes at me with an extra dose of attitude. “If you want to be so loud and open about it, it’s the best sex I’ve ever had. Just because you’re only thirty-two doesn’t mean you and Jayden get to have that all to yourself. Older people have needs too.”
“Mom! TMI!” I whisper-yell.
“It’s not TMI. Sex is part of life.” Mom sits up straight and smooths her blazer. “One day, I’d like you to meet him.”
“Never!” I respond quickly, bringing my palm down against the table, causing some of my latte to spill. “Never ever.”
The brunette woman, who’s apparently still filming, gives me an amused look and I scowl at her.
I swipe at my spill with a napkin and lean in toward Mom, trying to keep my composure and ignore the emotion welling up in my gut.
“What about Dad? How could you do this to him?” My voice cracks halfway through, and I hate that she can probably hear it.
“It’s complicated, honey,” she says, massaging her temples like she’s stressed and actually gives a shit about her husband of thirty-five years. I can just picture Dad, tears in his usually twinkly blue eyes, hanging his head, devastated.
“There’s nothing complicated about this. You’re being selfish and having a midlife crisis and breaking his heart. How could you do this to him?”
“There’s a lot you don’t know, Lexi. A lot.”
I can practically hear myself auditioning for the role of self-righteous daughter, but I can’t stop the response from bursting out of my mouth.
“I know that you’re delusional at the moment and it .
. . it doesn’t suit you at all.” The words hang there, sharper than I meant them to be.
I wish I could pull them back, but the damage is already done.
Mom sighs. Then she stands up, tucks a stand of hair behind her ear, and leans forward, resting her beautifully manicured hands on the table.
“I understand that it’ll take you a while to come to terms with this.
It’s a big deal, I get it. When you’re ready to meet Nicholas, he’d be happy to meet you. Just let me know. I have to get going.”
“Get going?” I repeat. “After you dropped this bombshell on me? Where are you going?”
“I’m sorry. It just hurts me that you’re so closed off to discussing this and understanding where I’m coming from.
I waited so long to be happy. You’re an adult now.
You should be able to accept this is what I need and see it from my perspective.
It took me a long time to work up the courage to talk to you about this. ”
I blink quickly and pinch my thigh under the table because I must be dreaming. How is this real life? Andy thought this was about plastic surgery and I thought, no, that’s very out of character, but this? This is out of character.
Is this the same woman who renewed her vows with Dad five years ago and cried joyously through the entire celebration?
The person who used to always host Sunday dinners, the glue that always held our family together?
She’s always been the most supportive, sensitive, and understanding person I know.
I don’t want to be selfish, especially when she just said that she’s happy—but telling me something this huge and expecting me to be instantly okay with it?
I feel like that’s selfish. “Mom, please, you need to think this through a little more,” I plead.
Mom rubs my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Lexi. I really am. I have thought this through. I haven’t been happy for years. But I’m sorry I wasn’t able to share this with you until now.”
I blink back the tears that start to prickle my eyes. “Are you sure?”
Mom nods. “I’m very sure.”
“When are you going to tell Gia?”
Mom chews on her lower lip. “I was hoping maybe . . . you could? You have a way with her. You’re a human resources pro. You calm her down like no one else can. I was thinking you could figure out the right wording that would . . . soften the blow.”
Soften the blow? This isn’t like the time she and Dad decided to go somewhere tropical and ditched our traditional family Christmas.
And then it really hits me.
There is no “her and Dad” anymore.
A stream of memories flits around in my head—her and Dad slow dancing at the lake, the way they used to be so competitive with Scrabble, how they both cried happy tears when Mark proposed to Gia at our family’s New Year’s Eve party.
I swipe at a tear before it runs down my cheek, and wrap my arms tightly around my body. “This is really . . . it’s sad.”
“I love you,” Mom says by way of a response, then turns and strides toward the exit, her stiletto heels clicking against the polished hardwood floor, leaving me slouched against the couch, too heartbroken to care about all of the eyes still on me, wondering how a fifteen-minute coffee meetup could completely blow up my life.