Chapter 17
After the late-summer smog of Southern California, the temperate East Coast climate of Boston is a welcome relief.
People here complain endlessly about cold winters, but I’ve always liked the changing seasons.
How can you enjoy summer if you don’t struggle through the browbeating of an East Coast winter?
Dad had an oft-repeated line on those blustery below-zero days: If you didn’t already know you’re alive, now you do.
Winter in New York takes my love of the season to a whole other level—the way a fresh dusting of snow makes the streets, parks, and buildings feel clean and even more picturesque than they already are, temporarily muting the eternal high-frequency commotion before the filth and noise regain their upper hand. It’s magical.
As the shuttle zips us into the city from Logan airport, I text Mom that we’ve arrived safely, and that I’m looking forward to seeing her at the event this evening.
The ellipses that indicate she’s writing back appear and disappear a few times before the gray text box finally pops up: Arent you coming to the house?
My teeth clench. We talked about this—there isn’t time to get from the airport to her place and back to the South End bookstore in time for the event.
Mar booked a car to bring Mom to the bookstore and everything—surely she remembers this, given the earful she gave me about it (A car!
Is it the Oscars? Do I need to make an appointment to hug my own daughter?).
But I know she just misses me and this is her way of expressing her discontent with the plans, whether she knew them in advance or not.
I force my jaw to relax and type back: I’m sorry, Mayrik, there isn’t time. I’ll see you at the event. We’ll go to the house together after.
Sleeping at my parents’ bungalow in Dorchester, where we moved when I was twelve, is not exactly enticing. To me, it still carries the pall of my last year there. It’s just two nights, I remind myself.
Never mind that the thought of two more nights without Ryan makes me restless.
As if by some unspoken agreement, neither of us has made a move toward the other since Kissgate and its fallout, and the sexual frustration rattling through me is a living thing.
Now I have to go two more agitated, sleepless nights without him.
And then…we’re heading back to New York. Where hopefully he’ll still be employed.
And this…thing between us will be over.
We can’t bring it home with us. Ryan needs to hold on to his job, if it’s still his. Even if there wasn’t a conflict of interest, Ryan won’t be content with a no-strings kind of arrangement—that’s becoming as clear as smog-free air. And I don’t do any other kind of arrangement. So…end of story.
The car feels too small suddenly, my perfume too strong. In the seat ahead of me, Ryan’s hair curls a little at the nape of his neck. I know how that part of his body smells. I know what those dark strands feel like between my fingers. I don’t know if my senses will ever forget.
I find myself searching through my messages for the familiar names from my in-phone Rolodex that used to give me a little spark of excitement—Evan, Malcolm, Jacob—hoping that just seeing them, the promise of the sexual delights they have to offer, will settle this gnawing creature in my esophagus.
But no dice. Their names seem distant, as though they belong in another life.
It’s just travel, I tell myself. A lot has happened in the past couple of weeks—it makes sense that people from home would feel far away.
Even if they never have before. As soon as I’m back in my apartment, back to my daily routines, I’m sure hitting them up will feel just the same as it always did.
Perfectly satisfying.
The drive from the airport to More than Words Bookstore is mercifully short, because too much time staring out at the cityscape and harbor will not help me put on my event face.
Every corner of this city is chockablock with memories, many of which used to be sweet, but have since become tinged with bitterness.
The seafood restaurant I took my parents to as a celebration when I scored in the ninety-ninth percentile on the MCAT.
The Lawn on D, where Nathan and I attended a concert on one of our first dates.
All the streets I’ve run, working out the stresses of school, of work…
of home. Long walks along the waterfront when I needed space from my parents’ house, or the apartment Nathan and I shared, or when I moved back in with Mom after Dad passed, outside being the only safe place to let the waves crash over me. Alone.
My knee feels warm and I notice Maral’s small hand there. She squeezes gently, acknowledging that there may be capital-F Feelings happening. She knows I won’t talk about them, but she’s offering me bare-minimum support—the only kind I’ll accept. I place my hand on hers and squeeze back.
When we pull up to the store, Ryan opens the back door for us before helping the driver unload our bags from the trunk. The brief touch of his hand on my waist as I emerge from the car sends a frisson of want through me, and I wonder how bad it would be to kiss him publicly again.
Bad, Ana. Don’t jump back into the hole you just climbed out of.
Especially after I spent the morning before our flight running damage control on all fronts.
Given that we’re no longer the scandal-du-jour, I sent Nadia a screenshot of my squeaky-clean mentions with the text time to re-up?
She replied with a thumbs-up and a promise to get in touch as soon as she had anything to share.
Next I sent an email to the marketing VP at Woodsworth.
I know Ryan didn’t want to put me in the position of having to explain myself to his boss, but I’ve never been one to sit idly by.
So I detailed in writing that Ryan did nothing untoward at all.
He was a perfect, professional gentleman, and I the architect of his demise, so please don’t make him pay for my bad behavior.
Whether it will save his hide is yet to be seen, but here’s hoping it makes a difference.
The bookstore staff greet us warmly, stow our bags behind the counter, and lead us to the event area, which is all decked out with creative displays of the book on breakout tables.
There’s about an hour till showtime, and the first order of business is to sign some of the store’s stock.
I set to work while Shanthi and Maral do lighting tests and Ryan confirms the run of show with the manager.
It’s a reading followed by an onstage interview with a bookstore rep who’s apparently a big fan.
The room is beginning to fill with attendees when my mom arrives, the sight of her filling my heart with competing emotions—nostalgia, trepidation, profound love.
She looks adorable but out of place in the crowd of young, hip urbanites.
I can tell she’s made an effort—she’s wearing her houndstooth jacket and low navy heels, and she’s styled her dark bob.
When I greet her with a hug and a double-kiss, the scent of her hairspray catapults me back in time.
It’s been so long since I’ve seen Mom put thought into her appearance—since Dad was alive.
Her depression was too dark, too all-consuming in the year that followed his passing for something as inconsequential as her looks to even occur to her.
Understandably. And then I was gone, fleeing to New York and not bearing daily witness to her gradual ascent out of the darkest part of her grief.
My visits in the intervening years have been spent at the house, where there was no need to doll up.
But now, given the opportunity, here she is—a picture of who she was prior to the version of her in my rearview mirror.
Close, anyway. The picture is slightly weathered, a filter applied that dulls its original colors.
“It’s so busy in here, Anahid jan,” she says in Armenian as people continue streaming in through the doors, squeezing past to get to the rows of chairs. “Maybe you should have planned this at a different store?”
“All these people are here to see me, Mayrik,” I say.
Her eyes widen with surprise. “To buy your book?” She waves at the displays lining the perimeter of the event area, my face smiling back at us three hundred–fold.
“That, and to hear me speak,” I say quickly, as though it’s insignificant. “How are you? How was the drive here?”
She shrugs, heaving a sigh. “Too much traffic in the evenings.”
I nod, sympathetic. “Rush hour. By the time we leave it will have cleared. Thanks for making the trip to be here.”
“It would have been nice to see you alone for a little while before”—she gestures vaguely to the crowd in distaste—“this.”
“You’re right,” I say. “The timing was tough, with the flight and the event. I could have planned it better.” I don’t know why I say this—I didn’t do any of the planning myself. “But we’ll have all day together tomorrow.”
Her brows meet in the middle of her forehead. “Just tomorrow? Aren’t you staying longer?”
Breathe. Just breathe. “No, remember, we have to get the train to New York Monday morning.”
“When will you be back?”
“Soon,” I promise, unwilling to commit to returning anytime in the near future.
She smiles, reaching up to cup my cheek. “I just miss you so much, janikus.”
I swallow thickly, my eyes burning. “I miss you too.”
Maral joins us, giving my mom kisses and getting an earful about the store being too crowded when an attendee accidentally bumps her handbag as they pass by.
“What’s this Sosi said about moving to Los Angeles?” Mom asks suddenly. I bet my horkoor called her as soon as we left Maral’s parents’ house last night. Seeing Maral must have jogged her memory.
Mar shoots me a censuring look, unimpressed. “We are considering possibilities,” she says vaguely, then pats my back a little too roughly. “Ana can tell you all about it later.”