Chapter 1 #2
This stage of motherhood is proving harder than I imagined.
It’s both a tender release and a torturous ride.
I always thought I had until they turned eighteen to know this feeling of helplessness—not to mention uncoolness.
The sense that I’d done all in my power to bring them to this precipice of independence.
Be gentle on them, world. Be gracious, teachers.
And maybe make Max not hate me?
And to myself: Be what they need. Which is what, exactly?
I tell myself to stop being dramatic. It’s not even the first day of school. It’s March, a crisp, sunny day full of bright air, the promise of spring.
And, of course, my big birthday.
I swerve out of the schoolyard, onward to brunch with my girlfriends. I know I’m not anywhere out of the woods with those kids; we’ve barely entered the jungle.
But jungles?
They grow bananas.
Paralyzed in the retail center parking lot, I wiggle my car mirror, panicking. Never mind that I’m tardy. I’m unsure if I should cackle or cry.
My meeting.
My day.
My hair.
These stupid heatless rollers advertised perfect beach waves, but instead I behold the reflection of something more like a nursery-rhyme child.
If Goldilocks and Bo-Peep had a cousin in cashmere, she’d be me.
My camel J.Crew sweater, cream slacks, and white leather booties were intentionally minimalist selections for my presentation today, so that the attention would stay on my design prowess and my portfolio.
On our destined partnership. Instead, the spotlight will squarely shine on the baby sheep adorning my head.
I pull at my golden ends to try and flatten the whole darn farm animal—but to no avail.
I yank open my center console to fish out a brush but pause before pulling it out.
I really don’t need this catastrophe any fluffier.
I sigh, grabbing my oversized tote. I’ll just pretend I look normal.
Maybe my friends won’t notice. It will be a nice test.
Instead of having a regular meeting spot, our trifecta has settled into a rhythm of trying a new place the second Tuesday morning of every month.
Easy to remember once it became a tradition.
I smile. I savor tradition. Seven years deep, and none of us three ever misses.
My throat catches. Even though we used to be four.
I enter the front door and take in Toast Kitchen + Bakery.
Quinn picked it since it’s close to the hospital.
The place has been open for some time now, but I’ve never been.
I nod my silent approval at the design aesthetic.
The restaurant is cozy: eclectic and quaint, with touches of retro chic.
Warm lighting glows onto lacquered wood tables.
Cubby shelves on the walls hold dried flowers, vintage cookbooks, and antique appliances.
The berry-red ceiling encloses the space like a grandmother’s parlor room.
I hold my poufy head high as I weave my way to Quinn and Sierra, seated in the back corner. Dropping myself into a steel chair, I grin. “Hi, guys!”
Quinn’s eyes widen, and Sierra covers her mouth.
“What?” I pick up a menu, playing it cool.
“Come on.” Quinn squints, pointing a finger at me. “Don’t even.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Aw, sweetheart,” drawls Sierra, her voice Alabama honey. “Did you use one of the twins’ curling irons? The smaller the barrel, the tighter the curl.”
“The closer to God,” Quinn deadpans.
“What, this?” I flip back the taut locks, which graze my clavicle instead of my typical midtorso length. “I love it!”
Quinn scrunches her nose. “It’s giving . . . presidential.”
I sense that she means more George Washington, less Jackie O.
Sierra, however, maintains her manners like always. “Or more—just—” She pauses. “It’s real perfect. Even for me. Maybe you want to muss it up a bit?”
Muss. I love her.
I cave, then I groan. “You guyyyyys, I know. What should I do? I have the meeting with Colton Montana and London Paige at eleven thirty. They are the essence of . . . everything this hair is not.”
It’s true. Football superstardom had met fashion-designer royalty in one of the hottest new celebrity power couples.
And somehow they wanted a meeting with me, Sutton Layne, to discuss the interior design of their newest property—more like kingdom—soon to be under construction up in Manhattan Beach, a crown-jewel beach town of LA’s South Bay.
I wonder if I still have a beanie stashed in my trunk.
Beanies are cool, at least, right? I saw London Paige wearing a designer one in a recent Instagram story.
No way I could brave this hair with the thousand-dollar-beanie cool kids.
But I think of myself rapping the presentation like Eminem—one shot! —and dismiss the idea.
“You look great,” Quinn lies. “We’ll help you fix it after we eat.”
Sierra nods. “Yes. Don’t worry!”
“Thanks, guys.” I sigh. “What would I do without you? And what did I miss?”
“We did order already,” Quinn says, “but add anything you want! Everything sounds amazing.” She lifts a Central Perk mug to her lips, and I like this place more by the second. I look down at my own. Adulting is hard, it says. Perfect. Now extra caffeine, please.
Even though the three of us met in college at USC, our roads meandered through the years before bringing us together again—at least, as a trio.
We were all Alpha Gammas together back in the day.
Quinn and I met at our first pledge meeting and have been best friends every day since—but back then, we knew Sierra only peripherally as a sorority sister two years older than us.
We reconnected as a group—along with our other longtime bestie, Camila—when we all became Coast Academy moms. The bond of having babies with friends was strong—but it turned out having big kids in grade school together could be even more like Gorilla Glue.
“I have to leave early today—I’m so sorry.
” Sierra’s hair is blonde, like mine, but more platinum than my gold, and usually styled to round-brush perfection and finished with a trendy accessory.
Today, it’s pulled half up with a velvet ribbon to match her black turtleneck.
Her blue eyes sparkle and slant gorgeously feline.
Her skin is luminous, like her smile. She runs a successful bakery—Sweet Sierra’s—one of her many talents.
She also helps run our school and her household of four amazing kids ages six to twelve.
Her marriage to Jake, a corporate lawyer, hums along with genuine teamwork and impressive commitment to date nights.
As with every part of her life, she works hard for its success.
None of us knows how she does it all. Her son Crew and Max are great friends.
“How’s Max doing?” she asks. “I want you to know we’ve had several talks with Crew about the YouTube fiasco.”
I sigh. “He’s . . .” So many words. “Bristly? Pissed? Thirteen?”
Quinn laughs. Her glossy black hair, parted down the middle, contrasts with Sierra’s like ink to milk.
Her beauty is striking—green eyes, strong eyebrows, and dewy skin.
I can never tell if her hospital scrubs help or hurt her intimidation factor.
As an ER doctor, she sustains one crazy schedule, one awesome kid, and one lackluster husband named Alan.
“Cat still swears she knew nothing about it. But she doesn’t have any access to socials, either. Sixteen. That’s my rule.” Quinn slants a look across the table. “I don’t mean that as a dig at your parenting, Sierra.”
“I don’t take it that way.” Sierra shrugs, undaunted, sipping water from a mason jar. “We monitor everything, and we trust Crew. And . . . that’s not a dig either. It’s so hard to navigate, y’all.” She pauses. “But he is not allowed to keep secrets. He’s so sorry he didn’t tell me, Sutton.”
“It’s fine.” I wave a hand. “I just feel out of my depth lately. Are all teens so mean to their parents?”
“Yes!” they insist, relaxing my shoulders.
Our male server appears in a tight gray polo, full-sleeve tattoos, and close-cropped dark hair. “I have the churro French toast . . . the bacon breakfast burrito . . . and a side of the millionaire’s bacon?” He drops down the dishes, plus extra plates.
Immediately I’m salivating. “Wow, you guys did good.” I pick up my fork and aim for the bacon. “Will this make me a millionaire?”
“No, but America’s favorite tight end might! So exciting, this meeting. I’ll be prayin’.” Sierra scoops a helping of the thick brioche, whipped cream, and cinnamon. “Quinn,” she starts, “how are you and Alan these days? Anything different?”
I hate the way Quinn’s radiance dims at this question. Her eyes drop, too.
“We’re the same.” She stabs the breakfast burrito, too hard. “I’ve been working a lot of nights. And it’s tax season, so . . .”
She doesn’t need to say more. I’ve never trusted Alan.
Not since their meeting during Quinn’s residency, not since their wedding in Monterey.
His hair has thinned as his ego has grown, and he consistently cuts Quinn down.
He shades her light, interrupts her stories.
Rolls over silently too many nights in a row, if you ask me.
Not that I have space to talk.
Yikes. The thought came too quickly, almost surprising me. Reid and I aren’t as bad as them. Are we? We’re no Sierra and Jake. Anymore.
“Is Alan coming to my birthday dinner on Saturday night?” I ask, choosing deflection.
Quinn just shrugs, so Sierra softballs a subject change. “Reid is such a sweetheart for doing that. And your house is the perfect party venue.”
I can’t help but grin, even though I’m still surprised Reid planned a party for me.
In the early days of our marriage, he wowed me for every birthday and anniversary.
Not necessarily extravagance, but always intentionality.
Coffee in bed. Meandering hikes. Sweet Post-its dotting the house.
He hasn’t done anything noteworthy on one of my birthdays for .
. . I’ve stopped counting. It stings too deeply.
Now it’s my turn to spear the chunky burrito.
I return my thoughts to the party. Fifty guests. Dinner served. Pink-and-gold theme. My face blooms back into a smile. “I really can’t wait.”
“That reminds me—” Sierra claps twice with cheerleader precision. “Are you ready for Friday morning? Your big birthday pickleball tourney?”
Among her many talents, Sierra is a rock-star pickleball player, rated 4.
0 in PPA standards. My high school tennis pulls through to make us a solid doubles team, 3.
5 averaged together. She insisted on hosting a pickleball brunch and competitive tournament at her country club, to celebrate my fortieth birthday with our closest mom friends from Coast.
“Ready?” I smile broadly. “I can’t wait. Are you coming, Quinn?”
“As long as I don’t have to play.”
“Come on.” Sierra pokes her shoulder. “You’re not that bad.”
“Well, I’m not good. Stabilizing a trauma patient? Easy yes. That stupid Wiffle ball? Hard no. But yes. I wouldn’t miss it. That’s how much I love Sutton.”
More of our breakfast feast disappears with every topic we cover. The school gala (do they even make gowns anymore that don’t have slits in the torso area?), Botox (what are we thinking lately, are we keeping it up, why is it so expensive?), and of course, once again, my birthday.
They ask me how I’m feeling—really feeling—about this seismic tick of the clock. At the question, silence hangs over us like a chandelier. Instead of thinking about my own life, my own imperfections and chaos at this crescendo, my gaze floats to the empty fourth chair with us.
“Gosh, I miss her.” I swallow. “I miss her so much.”
Right away, they both place a hand on mine.
She should be here, we say without words.
She’d have advice for all of us: How to parent in the digital age.
How to age gracefully, not that she’d need it with that youth-fountain complexion.
How to stay married, happily. How to keep going when all of it feels so hard.
What a lie that our best years are behind us!
she’d say. We’re just getting started. And we’ll always have each other.
Always: such a fickle word. We throw it around, hold it tight as we can, and sometimes, it stays. But sometimes, it slips. Sometimes it leaves two daughters and a husband behind, sometime around midnight. And sometimes you’re here, just three, when you used to be four.
Sierra checks her Michele watch and pushes back from the table. “Girls, I’m sorry, but I have to go finish the most gorgeous five-tiered cake for a twenty-first birthday party tonight. I’m down one baker today.”
“Twenty-one.” I whistle. “Must be nice.”
Quinn clucks her tongue. “Nope. You couldn’t pay me a billion dollars to be twenty-one again.”
I cock my head. “Really?”
“I agree.” Sierra stands. “You should meet this girl. All over the darn place. You forget we are women, and they are that: girls. Give ’em the tight skin. I’ll take my grit.”
“You mean your grits,” I joke to my Southern belle, rising to hug her. “Love you. Send pics of the cake.”
Before she goes, she cups my cheeks in her Sierra way. “Enjoy the very last of your thirties. I’ll see you Friday! Come ready to win!”
I blow her an air-kiss and wave, but my mind sticks like syrup to my friends’ commentary on being twenty-one again.
Go back?
I’d do it for free.