Chapter 20 #2
“We simply don’t understand how you can consider exposing Lucy to this person before we can all satisfy ourselves that there isn’t any underlying danger.
Unlike you, when I experience an uncanny coincidence, I don’t assume it’s magic.
And while it might be serendipity, I also feel compelled to consider whether malice might be involved.
For example, what if he’s one of those horrid internet people who made our lives hell after Sam died and somehow learned about your book and got hold of an advance copy?
What if it’s all a ploy to gain access to your finances or your personal life, or god forbid . . . to Lucy?”
“Really, Rebecca? Maybe I’m not the only one here suffering from an overactive imagination,” I snapped.
“You’re telling me that because I haven’t given you—my beloved former in-laws—the opportunity to personally vet my new boyfriend and because I’ve moved into my own apartment with my own daughter at the age of thirty-one, that somehow those two things mean I’m having a psychotic break? ”
“We’re also Lucy’s grandparents,” Rebecca pointed out unnecessarily. “And what if this becomes a whole internet scandal again now that you’re a bestseller? You’re going to get more press now, which can only lead to more attention on you and Lucy.” A note of hysteria crept into her voice.
William shot Rebecca a glance that said “simmer down” and then jumped in to clarify. “It’s more that we’re concerned about the timing and reason for the move, not the fact of it. We always knew this day would come, even if we dreaded it.” His voice cracked with emotion.
I patted William’s shoulder. “I know, William. I dreaded it, too. That’s why it took me so long.
And it’s been a difficult adjustment for us as well.
But it was time.” It occurred to me that perhaps William was experiencing our move as akin to another death in the family.
His world turned for Lucy. I should have prepared them better for this eventuality.
“But there’s more to this than our sadness over you and Lucy leaving,” Rebecca insisted, unwilling to be diverted.
“Thea, this afternoon you attributed your new bestseller status to the fact the character in your book was a bestseller. How are we supposed to feel comfortable that you’re in your right mind when you’re constantly saying fantastical things like that? ”
“Well, maybe that’s the problem right there,” I shot back. “Maybe my purpose in life isn’t to make you feel comfortable about my state of mind.”
Rebecca downshifted to a softer tone. “Please, Thea, sit back down. Hear us out.”
Tears sprang to my eyes. I wanted to put an immediate end to this horrible after-dinner discussion, but Lucy would fight me if I tried to make her leave before her show was over, and I was suddenly so exhausted all I wanted was to go back to my pool raft and float aimlessly into oblivion.
I dropped back down into the powder-coated metal chair, a Portofino-inspired floral cushion softening the blow.
“What do you want from me? I’m a good mom.
” It came out of my mouth as a cross between a whimper and a whisper. A whimsper.
“We agree. You’re an excellent mom. But we want you to see a therapist,” Rebecca said like she was asking me to do nothing more profound than tie a shoe. “We need to be assured you are differentiating reality from fiction.”
“I don’t need a therapist,” I said, enunciating every syllable. “I’m fine.”
“We think you do need one. And I’m afraid we’re going to insist on it,” Rebecca said.
“How? Are you going to have me committed if I refuse?” I scoffed.
Rebecca and William shared a worried glance.
“No, of course not,” William said. “But we do need to be vigilant for Lucy’s sake.”
“We’d never forgive ourselves if something horrible happened,” Rebecca said. “If this guy turns out to be a con man or a stalker or a sex offender or who knows what else.”
My body, which only seconds ago had been weary with exhaustion, suddenly ignited with fury.
And then, just as quickly, I burst into tears as my fury shape-shifted into desolation.
“I don’t understand. Why are you undermining me just when I’m finally finding peace again after everything that happened? Why can’t you let me be happy?”
William patted my hand with his. But for the extensive sun damage, it looked a lot like Sam’s. “Sweetheart, all we want is to make sure that your sense of peace and happiness is well founded—and lasting—and that it doesn’t turn out to be a mirage that endangers you and Lucy.”
I ripped my hand out from under his and stood up. “Lucy and I are leaving now.”
As I started toward the house, Rebecca called out, “We’re serious about this. You need to engage a therapist. As soon as possible.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” I said over my shoulder. “He’ll be back this weekend. I’ll make sure you meet him soon.” I prayed that was a promise I could keep, but if I was being honest, Rebecca had me rattled and I wasn’t entirely sure about anything.
Lucy fell asleep in the car on the way home, and I successfully transferred her to her bed.
So at least one thing had gone my way this evening.
Now I paced around my living room, trailed by Sam The Dog, and replayed the after-dinner conversation, my sense of indignance growing with every lap.
Rebecca and William had made it clear from the beginning that they were suspicious of Max and not in favor of our move, but their worries felt overblown at every turn.
While I didn’t question their sincerity, I couldn’t help wondering if this whole thing was merely a product of them wishing we would move back into the guesthouse and then allowing their minds to rationalize the desire.
Still, I felt about as respected as a toddler.
Frannie popped the champagne cork as she walked in the door. “Let’s party like it’s 1999!” Then she registered my crestfallen face. “Oh no, what is it? Did Max break it off?”
“No,” I said with my eyes fixed on the Barbie-pink polish that Lucy and I had painted on each other’s toes last night. “That would be better than this,” I said softly. Then I gave her the verbatim rundown of my awful dinner with the Packers.
I could practically see the gears turning as she processed the situation. “Any word from Max?” she asked. “It would put their fears to rest if he would show his face. He said he’ll be home this weekend, right?”
I nodded. “He congratulated me with a sweet text, but . . .”
“But?” she prompted.
“But then I texted him several more times about seeing him this weekend and he didn’t respond to any of those,” I admitted.
“I’m sure he’s just busy with work.” But what if that wasn’t it?
What if there was another reason he wasn’t responding?
Before my thoughts could spiral any further, Frannie cut in.
“Remember when Rebecca did that background check on him and said she didn’t find anything?” I nodded and she continued, “You googled him before your first date. What if we printed out some evidence to satisfy her?”
“Great idea,” I said. “She’s just old-school enough that seeing—in print—is believing.” I dashed to grab my laptop from the coffee table, feeling grateful for Frannie’s systematic mind.
Standing at the kitchen counter, and wishing I’d had my computer at that dinner, I opened LinkedIn so I could pull up Max’s profile like I had done before agreeing to meet him at the observatory a few weeks ago.
I typed in Max’s full name, Maxwell Q. Smith, and clicked Return with Frannie peering over my shoulder.
This time, however, the search produced no match.
I double-checked my spelling, then searched for him again without a period after the Q.
Still nothing. Then I tried again without the Q.
Now there were thirty-nine thousand results.
Maybe his billionaire overlord had made him delete his account?
Dread washed me out as I switched over to Google.
I searched for the NASA page where I had previously viewed a photo of him, smiling and looking every bit himself, only younger, with his astronaut cohort.
But that photo was gone, too. I dug through my Safari search history and tried to access the NASA photo I’d found that way.
A 404 error message appeared: “The requested URL was not found on this server.” Against all reason, I spent another fifteen minutes searching his name every which way, combing through NASA photos and scanning slick private space company websites for any sign of Max.
Feeling my distress, Frannie said, “Don’t worry. All I need is a photo. Then I can run an image search, which should help us find all the information you need.”
Had we taken a single “us”ie? I scrolled through my recent photos and our texts, but all I had to show for our time together was the dick pic Max had sent me. Sheepishly, I handed her my phone.
“Jeez, Thee”—Frannie smirked—“and yet, not exactly what I had in mind.”
“It’s all I have, though,” I said.
“Well, I’m sorry to say I cannot reverse search that!” she laughed.
“I do have that necklace he gave me. Maybe you could do an image search on that?” I ran to my bedroom, but the necklace wasn’t on my nightstand. I checked every drawer, under the bed, and the bathroom vanity. But it wasn’t there.
When I returned to the kitchen a few minutes later, I said, “It seems to have gone missing, but I’m sure it’ll turn up.” I would do a full-throttle search later, but right now, Frannie’s worry lines gave me pause.
“Would going to a therapist be the worst thing, even if it was just to get the Packers off your case?” she asked, raising a forkful of pad Thai to her mouth from the container she’d left in my fridge the other night.
“What? Don’t tell me you think I’m crazy, too.” I rolled my eyes and then grabbed my own fork to steal a bite.