Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Hailey
I put my phone down. Then pick it up again, checking to see if Jason texted back.
But he hasn’t. And after several minutes, I blow out a breath and decide I need to focus on something else.
It’s not good that I’m this caught up in a silly text conversation with him. But I feel … I don’t know. What is this, exactly?
Giddy?
That’s the best word I can come up with.
But I’m supposed to be getting space from him. From this feeling, specifically, so I can analyze my situation without Jason short-circuiting my brain.
When I pick up my phone again, all that giddiness has passed. This time I’m going to call my mom. The light, happy feelings I had just a moment ago all coalesce in my gut, forming a tight, heavy ball.
Tapping my mom’s name, I press the phone to my ear, my breath coming faster as my heart rate picks up. It rings enough times that I’m convinced it’ll go to voicemail—which wouldn’t be entirely unusual—but then Mom answers.
“Hi, Hailey,” she says. “I haven’t heard from you in a while. How are you?”
“Uh, I’m okay. How about you and Dad?”
“Oh, you know. We’re muddling through.” That’s her standard answer. “Any concerts coming up soon that we should know about?”
“Oh, uh, well, I haven’t gotten the schedule for the next season yet, but there’s the free Labor Day concert in the park, as usual.”
“Right. You’ve done that a few times before. I’ll see if your father and I can make it.”
I make a noncommittal noise. There’s about a fifty-fifty chance they’ll come.
It’s free, so there’s that. But it’s over an hour away and outside, so they’ll have to pack lawn chairs or a blanket or something to sit on.
And bring food if they want that. Sometimes that’s more effort than they’re willing to put in.
They usually do come to my regular season concerts, though.
It helps that I can give them comp tickets.
But they’re physically present, which is as supportive as they’re really able to be.
When I was in college and still had health insurance, I saw a therapist through the university for a while, and she helped me come to terms with the way my parents show up for me.
“The best thing you can do for yourself,” she told me, “is learn to accept what they’re able to offer at face value.
And with that information, you get to decide how you respond.
If you want to maintain a relationship, this is all they’re able to offer.
Expecting more just sets you up for disappointment.
And if you can’t stop yourself from expecting more, you can choose to limit contact so you don’t keep hurting your own feelings again and again. ”
I told one of my friends about that, and she’d reacted poorly, like my therapist was blaming me.
But I never took it that way. It was never about blame.
Just accepting them for who and what they are—what they’ve become.
It doesn’t mean I don’t get to mourn the loss of who they might’ve been if Hunter hadn’t died.
But it frames it in a way where I get to be in the driver’s seat instead of letting them control our whole relationship.
If this is the best they can offer me—lukewarm presence and a surface-level relationship—then knowing and accepting that makes it easier to look for the emotional depth I need somewhere else.
Of course, now that I’ve lost my old friend group, I’m back to my old hyper-independent habits.
Maybe that’s why texting with Jason feels so good—it’s the first real amount of strong human connection I’ve had in quite a while.
I clear my throat, pulling myself back to the present and the conversation with my mom. “I had some car trouble recently.”
“Oh, that’s too bad, honey. I’m sorry to hear that.” She says all the right things, but her voice is soft, barely any inflection. When I was younger and desperately wanting some kind of emotional response so I knew that I mattered, I might’ve asked, “Are you?”
But this version of me just hums acknowledgment and continues. “Yeah. My transmission went out, and the cost to fix it is more than the car is worth.”
“Oh no.”
“Yeah.” I take a deep breath. Here’s where things get hard.
Sure, I can accept the lack of emotion. I can accept them coming to my concerts, staying long enough to say good job afterward, and then leaving almost immediately.
I can even handle the stilted conversations at Thanksgiving and Christmas.
But it’s the asking for actual help that brings up all my teenage worries.
“I can’t afford the cost to replace the transmission, and I can’t afford a new car either.
I was wondering if you and Dad might be able to help me out? ”
She’s silent for a moment. “Help you out in what way?” Now her voice is downright cold, not even the faint hint of warmth from before. This is Judy, the businesswoman. Not Mom anymore.
Another deep breath. “Anything you can spare, really. A loan? Or at least help with the down payment? Maybe cosign if they need that?”
Her answer is a sigh. And I know what’s coming. “Hailey. We’ve talked about this.”
“I know,” I say, my voice small. “I wouldn’t ask if I weren’t desperate.
The cellist in my quartet just had a baby, and I haven’t been able to book enough solo gigs to make up for the loss of income from the quartet being on hiatus.
Summer enrollment is down. I worked at the camp in June, but that money only went so far.
Since the orchestra doesn’t play in the summer, I don’t have that income.
I was doing food delivery to make up the difference, but I can’t do that without a car. ”
“Have you considered getting a normal job? I know you said you were working on playing for a higher-paying symphony, but that hasn’t panned out so far.”
“No,” I whisper. “I know it hasn’t.” Tears are threatening, but I don’t want to sniff because I can’t cry. Not on the phone. Not with my mom.
When I was little, she’d hold me while I cried and rub my back.
And even right after Hunter died, she’d sit and hold me and cry with me.
But after a month or so, something flipped inside her.
She cleaned out Hunter’s room, packed up all his things, and any time I cried after that—no matter what it was about—she had no patience for my emotions.
And once Judy is the one I’m talking to? Forget it. Business and tears don’t mix, according to my mother.
“Let me talk to your father,” she says at length. “If we loan you money”—she puts particular emphasis on loan—“it’ll come with significant conditions. You understand that?”
“Such as?” I ask, needing to know. I need to know the full details of this option, because if it’s tolerable, I can do that and not marry Jason.
But would marrying Jason really be so bad?
The logistics of moving to Seattle are a little overwhelming, but the actual day-to-day sounds fantastic. I could live in his place, drive his car, spend his money, and play music as much and as loud as I want.
It’s a dream.
Which is why it’s hard to trust.
Maybe I need to come up with some conditions there—a timeline for how long I’ll live with him before stepping out on my own again.
“For starters, you’d move back here and work for your dad and me.”
That’s the kicker. I knew it was coming, but I needed to hear her say it.
“And?” I prompt. I know there’s more. There has to be.
“We’ll lay out a repayment plan, and we’ll also make sure you get set up with retirement accounts. You’re almost twenty-six, Hailey. You need to be thinking about these things.”
“Of course, Mom,” I nearly whisper.
“Like I said, let me talk to your father. We’ll lay out all the details, then we’ll meet with you to make sure we’re all in agreement.”
It sounds like it might have some room for negotiation, but I know that’s just for show. “I don’t have a car, Mom,” I remind her. “If you want to meet in person, you’ll have to come here.”
She sighs heavily. “Which means we’ll also have to come get you to move you home.” Another sigh. “Well, I guess that can’t be helped. We can do the meeting over Zoom, though, before we get to that point.”
I let out a choked laugh. “And you’ll send the contract over via Docusign?”
“Of course,” she says, not realizing I was being sarcastic.
Oh my god. She’s totally serious. They’re going to draw up a contract and send it for me to sign. I shouldn’t be surprised, really, and yet … I am. I guess at least she doesn’t want it notarized.
Swallowing hard, I force myself to say, “Okay, Mom. Thanks. Talk soon.”
She makes some polite noises, and we hang up. I sit, staring at my wall, my mind blank.
But the blessed blankness doesn’t stay for long. No, all too soon, my mind is whirring with all the possibilities of the future my mom outlined—spending twenty-four/seven with my parents.
“No,” I whisper, not meaning to voice the word at all.
It just comes out. “No. I can’t. I can’t I can’t I can’t.
” With each repetition, my voice gets louder.
“I can’t do it.” My breathing comes fast and shallow.
“I can’t go back there. I can’t work for them.
I can’t let them control my entire life. ”
They couldn’t be bothered to give me any sense of normalcy or stability when I was a kid. Nope, then they just ignored me. I never asked for anything, though. I knew I wouldn’t get what I needed.
And here we are, in the same situation, aren’t we? Yeah, they might be willing to “help” me, but it’s not what I need. I just need to be able to get a car. If I could get myself a car, I can make it, just like I’ve been making it all along.
Pulling out my phone again, I send a text to Jason.
Instead of this elaborate marriage arrangement, couldn’t you just help me buy a car?
Jason
If that’s really what you want, absolutely.
I’m just worried it won’t be enough. You still won’t have insurance.
You still won’t have stability. And you still won’t be able to actually pursue your dream of playing with a major orchestra.
You’ll keep doing food delivery and scraping by.
And what if something happens—you get a flat or get in a car accident, and I’m not there to make sure you’re okay? I don’t like that at all.
I sit and read his message over and over. I have no idea how many times—fifty? A hundred? A thousand?
He’ll help me. The way I want—and the way I need.
He’s not offering control, he’s offering stability.
And … I don’t even know what that feels like.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt totally stable.
When I was at Lawrence, I mostly did, but even then, I always worried my parents might decide not to help with the portion of tuition my scholarships didn’t cover.
I took out some student loans, but if they hadn’t pitched in, I would’ve needed to take more.
As it was, I was hungry for gigs and students as soon as I was able to get them.
I thought moving to Madison would give me a bigger metro area to be able to draw from after graduation—and I wasn’t wrong, exactly, it’s just. It hasn’t been enough.
Of course, if I move to Seattle, I’ll basically be starting from scratch, won’t I?
Well, not a hundred percent. I already have my website with recordings and reviews there. I’d have to take down the quartet part, and I’d feel kinda bad leaving my quartet in the lurch.
Am I making the decision to go to Seattle? Gritting my teeth, I text Jason again.
I’m not totally on board with the marriage thing, but I’ll take you up on your offer of coming there. If that’s still okay.
Of course. Tell me when you want to leave, and I’ll book your plane ticket. And get you an Uber to the airport. How’s tomorrow?
His response makes me chuckle, which is a relief after the churning panic that was choking me just a few minutes ago.
And I guess that’s how I know this is the right choice.
Texting Jason and saying yes doesn’t make me want to panic.
Honestly, even the thought of a quick courthouse wedding to get insurance doesn’t strike fear in my heart the way I feel like it ought to.
Definitely not the way moving home with my parents does.
I need a little more time than that. I’ll need to give my roommate notice
I’ll pay her through the end of next month. But you shouldn’t stay that long. Especially not without a car. Do you need a rental car while you finish up there, though? Do you have any more gigs this month?
Yeah. Two weddings. I’d like to finish those out before going there
Oh my god, I’m really doing this.
Okay. Just let me know what date you want to leave by, and I’ll book the ticket. Don’t get cold feet!