Chapter 17
“Your problem”—Cassie places a stack of my shirts in my mom’s dresser—“is you let go of all the things you should hang on to and hang on to all the things you should let go of.”
“How do you explain our thirty-year friendship, then?” I tease.
“It means I’m the lucky beneficiary of your poor choices.” She closes the drawer and reaches for the pile of sweatshirts, placing them carefully in the next drawer. “You should have broken up with me when I made you wear matching pink overalls to homecoming.”
“I can’t stay up here, Cass.” I gesture around Mom and Sonny’s bedroom, where she’s strong-arming me to move into. I won’t be able to sleep in their bed, surrounded by paintings of the two of them together and mementos of their life—staring over the dark abyss of the forest.
“Your mom says she doesn’t need your help at night anymore, and you can’t sleep on that couch forever. You need to let this go. What would your therapist say?” she huffs as she continues to unload the outfits she brought me.
“I don’t have a therapist.”
“Exactly.” She closes the drawer with a click and leans against it, folding her arms across her chest. “That’s why you have no choice but to listen to me.
You’re here. That’s a good first step. Now, spend some actual time with her.
Have the tough conversations so you can get to know her again.
She was so worried last night. She loves you, Edie. ”
“I know.” Cassie’s right, of course. For years, she pushed me to visit Mom, go to therapy, and deal with my shit. I’ve always preferred to shove it in a box and avoid it. But my box is full, and I can’t close the lid anymore.
I open the second suitcase to avoid the conversation and find a bright-pink gift bag. Digging inside, I lift out a scrap of scarlet with black lace by my pinkie finger. “What the hell is this?” It’s not clear which part of the body the lingerie is meant to cover.
“A gift.” She grins, the dimple on her right cheek taunting me.
I drop it into the bag as if it bit me. “Only you, Cass. ‘What could Eden need while tending to her injured mother? Oh, I know—stripper underwear.’”
“I thought the big angry nephew might like ’em. And now that I’ve got a good look at him, he does seem like an ass man.”
I snort to cover my blush; I still feel him pressed against my backside, hard and tempting. I look down to avoid eye contact and explore the gift bag filled with bralettes, panties, and a couple of teddies.
“So far, my problem has been needing more clothes, not less.” I decide not to tell Cassie about Snugglegate or the sneak attack by Houdini that left me naked and Caleb mortified. She never lets anything go, especially if she finds it funny, sexy, or perverse.
“Oh, and I bought you these.” Cassie dangles something above my purse. I step closer before I see her stuffing a strip of condoms inside.
“Cassie.” I laugh. “What the hell?” I reach for it, but she swings it out of my grasp.
“Just looking out for you. You know, have fun but be safe.” She drops my purse on the side of the dresser and wraps her hands around my upper arms. “I’ll tell you what: I’ll sleep up here with you tonight.
We can put on face masks and binge a show on my laptop.
You don’t even need to model one of those negligees for me.
I’m a sure thing.” She winks at me before returning to her task.
I laugh but can’t deny the king-size bed looks especially appealing after a sleepless night on a cold floor.
“You sure you have to leave tomorrow?” Having her here is a balm to my soul.
“Sorry. That drive is brutal, and I have a meeting with my boss on Monday at eight a.m. in person. I miss when I could roll out of bed and onto the Zoom screen. Now I have to wear hard pants, makeup, and deodorant.” She sighs dramatically.
She works in marketing at some big firm in the city and hates it.
“I checked out flights, but they’re expensive and likely use tin-can planes, and it’s still a two-hour drive in a rental car. Why isn’t it easier to get here?”
“You know I love you for coming all this way,” I say. “Even if it’s just to lecture me and bring me inappropriate underwear.”
“I also brought you your emotional support hoodie.” She reaches into a suitcase and tosses me my favorite Cal sweatshirt—the stitching on the satin yellow L is peeling away from the blue fleece. I yank it over my head and slip my thumbs through the makeshift holes in the cuffs.
“Can you do one other thing for me?”
“I draw the line at asking Caleb if he likes you. We’re not in middle school anymore. But you can send him a note. ‘Do you like me? Check Yes or No.’”
“Hilarious,” I say, before sobering. “Can you check on my dad every once in a while? When I told him about my mom, he . . .”
“Shut down?” she guesses.
I nod. “He sounded so sad and probably feels weird about me being here.”
“Sure,” she says. “You know I love Len. I’ll be happy to visit. I’ll make up an excuse about needing book recommendations or help with my houseplants so he doesn’t think I’m babysitting him.”
I exhale a sigh of relief as I grab a stack of jeans and place them in an empty drawer. “Thanks. I’d appreciate that.”
“But,” Cassie says, “your dad’s emotions aren’t your responsibility. And you have to promise you won’t let his hurt keep you from reconnecting with your mom.”
I look away as I close the drawer. I know she’s right, but old habits die hard. In high school, my dad encouraged me to call my mom, told me I should visit, but his despair was so consuming, I didn’t want to contribute to it. Besides, my anger was as potent as his sadness. We were in it together.
“I won’t,” I say, hoping I can keep this promise.
When Cassie and I collapse in bed later, the promised laptop perched between us, cued up to a reality dating show that Cass assures me is the best worst thing on television, I don’t think of it as Sonny and Mom’s room.
I don’t envision the yawning abyss of the forest taunting me from the wall of windows.
And I think maybe there’s a corollary to Caleb’s rule about healing from heartbreak: The secret to letting go of traumatic memories is to make beautiful new ones in their place.
Cassie wakes me with a steaming latte in a mug the size of a soup bowl, placing it on the nightstand before she perches on the side of the bed.
“I brought you a three-month supply of Four Barrel coffee and a handheld frother. You may be light-years away from the city, but you are a bougie coffee snob and would perish without the good stuff.”
“I was wrong about you,” I say. “You’re really coming through for me.”
“Just this once. Don’t get used to it.”
She’s been the most consistent joy in my life, but I smile and tease her. “Never.”
“Nicolette is downstairs with her coffee and reading a thriller on her Kindle. She seems better today.”
“Oh, shoot, what time is it?” I scramble for my phone. “She needs her morning meds.”
“Already taken care of.” Cassie smiles, but it’s brittle and forced.
“What’s wrong?” I press myself up on my hands until I’m resting against the headboard.
“Nothing’s wrong. I just need to tell you something.”
Her tone has the solemnity she’s reserved for only a few sober moments in our lives, and I’m scared of what she’s about to say, because I’m not ready for the nausea and dread. Not when she’s packed and prepping to leave.
“I’m pregnant,” she says finally, her eyes glistening with trapped tears. She looks so pained that I panic.
I scoot toward her and wrap my hand over hers. I always assumed she wanted to be a mom and would have a bunch of kids. We’re thirty-five. It’s not like either of us have a lot of time to equivocate. “Cass, this is good news, right?”
Cassie blinks rapidly and brushes the tears aside with her free hand.
When she speaks, her voice is thick. “Yeah. Yes. I mean, Justin and I have been talking about it for a while. Maybe it wasn’t planned, exactly.
But not not-planned either, if you know what I mean.
I stopped taking the pill a year ago, and we’ve been using the lazy pull-out method and fucking like—”
I raise both hands to stop her. “Got it. But why do you seem upset?”
She inhales and holds her breath for several seconds before speaking on an exhale. “I was going to tell you at brunch that day. And then, well, I didn’t want to do that to you after Jeff, but I also didn’t want to keep it from you. I just . . .”
That nausea makes landfall, and my stomach roils. I’m such a mess that my favorite person in the world didn’t want to share her good news. Life-altering news. Beautiful news.
“Cassie.” And now I’m the one with tears caught in my throat.
“I am so happy for you. You are going to be the best mom.” I wrap my arms around her and we both cry—happy tears, mainly.
And if my emotions are more nuanced, it’s not because I’m ambivalent about her pregnancy, it’s because I’m disappointed that my best friend thought she couldn’t share this with me.
“You’ll take your marketing expertise and become a mom influencer with a million followers.
You’ll be funny, even on no sleep, and hot, even with spit-up in your hair. ”
She snorts, which brings on a fresh wave of tears. “Not so effortless so far. I just puked twice in the bathroom.”
“Oh, Cass.” I draw her closer.
I ask all the requisite questions. How far along is she?
Nine weeks. Will she find out the sex? No.
Has she told anyone else? Just one of her sisters.
Has she seen the doctor yet? Yes, and she likes the sound of the heartbeat even more than John Legend’s baritone.
I manage to stay in the moment, stay in her moment, and not acknowledge that my heart is throbbing a little along the seams, or stretching to accommodate the promise of more love.
Or maybe both.