Chapter 18 #2
“When she told me she wanted to move to San Francisco, she led with her arguments against all the reasons she assumed I’d refuse.
It was eye-opening. Here she was, just trying to do the best thing for herself, for the future I’d worked so hard to safeguard for her, but overcome with the fear that I’d impede her.
” He grimaces. “I felt like shit after that conversation, but I’m glad it happened.
I needed the push to look inward, to take steps to change the way I related to her.
To be what she needed me to be for her.”
I squeeze his hand, a small show of gratitude that he shared this with me. “You’re a good dad. Brother. Dad-bro.” I groan inwardly at myself. “She’s lucky that you listen. That you’re tuned in to her feelings and open to change. It says a lot about you.”
“There were—are—a lot of bumps along the way. Chill doesn’t exactly come naturally to me.”
I hum. “I can relate.”
“No kidding,” he says, then winks at my faux-affronted gasp. “But if Celine hadn’t talked to me about it, I wouldn’t have had the chance to at least try to step up that way.”
Subtext: Give your mom a chance. Tell her how her actions affect you. I sigh. “It’s not that simple in my case,” I say.
“I didn’t say it was simple.”
How would I even approach talking to Mom about my needs when our dynamic has never made space for them? Not beyond the immediate, base-of-Maslow’s-hierarchy ones, at least, and it’s been decades since those were on her plate. Would she hear me? What would I even say?
I’ve been relying on the TV show as the thing that would finally neutralize Mom’s issues with my career choice and resolve this problem once and for all.
But there are times when I question whether this is even a problem to be resolved.
She’s just expressing her thoughts and feelings—it’s not her job to manage my reactions.
Isn’t it just a matter of me being less sensitive?
Letting it wash off my back? I was always so good at that until…
Dad. His death stripped the buffer from my head, from my heart, and I could no longer absorb the blows.
But that was years ago. It seems ridiculous for me to hide from someone I love just because she says a few words that make me feel icky. It’s time I put on my armor, like the boss I am.
I should get back to her. Maral can only hold her over so long, and she has plans to meet up with friends from college—she actually kept in touch with people—which is why she opted to stay in the city instead of Dorchester. Can’t say I blame her.
But I don’t move. Although I’m in no rush to get started on the next thirty-six hours with Mom, I’m in even less of a hurry to say goodbye to Ryan.
Unwilling to examine why his hand feels so good in mine, so right, I opt instead to do something very out of character: Simply stay still. In this moment. With him.
As if he can sense what I’m thinking, he says, “You have my number. Call me anytime you want to talk.”
Anytime. Meaning if I need an understanding ear, a shoulder to lean on, a hand to hold. Someone to help carry the heaviness.
“Careful what you offer—I may be blowing up your phone all day,” I say.
His eyes shine with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his lips. “You can blow it up every day,” he says.
Heat prickles up my neck.
Forever, baby.
I swallow around an obstruction in my throat. “Don’t worry. Lucky for you, you’re officially off the hook.”
I don’t let him voice the question radiating off his expression, rambling on.
“Tonight was the last tour event. You’re heading home tomorrow.
Hopefully to a job you need to keep on the straight and narrow for.
And the Bryant Park event on Tuesday isn’t even Woodsworth-related, so, you know. ” I shrug, like, that’s all she wrote.
“I’ll be at the Bryant Park event on Tuesday,” he says.
My stomach flips. “I thought you were just doing publicist duties for the tour. I didn’t expect you’d attend the local events after we get back.” Assuming he’s still employed.
His gaze is steady. “If you’re there, I want to be there.”
His image blurs before me. My eyes are wet, my fingers trembling as they loosen around his.
I stand up, forcing steel into my spine to stop it from turning to goo.
My throat feels too tight, constricted. I offer what I hope looks like a smile but may well look like evidence of a neurological disorder.
“Then, I guess…I’ll see you there. Safe travels home,” I say shakily and head toward the door, the clop of my heels on the pavement echoing in the alleyway.
Pushing back through the door, I barely register the lingering patrons; the picked-over displays of my book; the polite goodbyes between Mom, Maral, and Shanthi as we don our jackets and gather our bags at the front of the store.
I tap at my Uber app as if in a trance, shuffling Mom into the car on autopilot and participating only in rote conversation on the drive home.
It’s not until my phone pings with a message from Nadia as we’re speeding down Morrissey Boulevard that I’m jostled from my inertia.
Interest from Scope!
My stomach leaps at the name of the popular L.A.-based TV network, whose bright logo was splattered on more than a few billboards we passed on our way to Glendale just yesterday. A tartness settles in my belly, but that’s just how hope feels when it comes as a pleasant surprise.
Yay! I make my fingers type, despite the tension in my shoulders. Already left L.A. tho?
Her response comes a few seconds later. NP, can do zoom mtg next Friday
I take a deep breath, screenshotting the text chain and sending it to Maral. Mom’s profile is silhouetted against the moonlight as she talks about the nazook she baked for us to enjoy with coffee tomorrow. This is good. It’s good. I exhale slowly.
I’m back in the game.