Chapter 4
Chapter Four
German food is superior to all others.
Love is worth the pain.
I guess I have a boyfriend now.
If my morning were made into a TV show, it would, without question, be The Walking Dead.
After shelving Brandon Sanderson in the non-fiction section—twice—I had to admit I wasn’t exactly functioning at full capacity.
Three customers came in. Two bought books.
One seemed deeply disappointed that there was no romance section.
An hour before the longest workday in human history finally ended, Otis walked in, looking like the literal sun.
“Ah. You got laid,” I said, raising my hand sluggishly for a high five.
He left me hanging. Rude.
“No.” He shook his head. “I mean yes, but that’s not the point. I met the director last night. He thinks I’m perfect. Nora, are you asleep?”
He poked me with a pencil.
“What?” I blinked open eyes I hadn’t realized I’d closed. “Sorry.”
Otis sighed dramatically. “Here.” He walked behind the counter, nudged me toward the sofa, and handed me a cup of espresso. “Take five, then be the good friend I know you are.”
I slumped onto the sofa, eyelids already half-closed. “I love you. You’re the best. One in a million.” I yawned so wide it cracked my jaw. “Oh, can you come to Mom’s for dinner?”
Otis’s expression softened. “Of course.”
I threw him something between a wink and an kiss, which, judging by his face, looked as weird as it felt.
“Only if you promise never to do that again.”
Mom had no recollection of texting me. She looked up from a recipe book, genuinely surprised when I opened the door that led down to the store and entered the small, faded blue kitchen. The place smelled like a pastry shop, filled with the sticky-sweet scent of my childhood.
“Otis. Nora.” Mom sat in her kitchen, a blanket wrapped around her thin frame. Her heavy German accent had never really faded. “What a nice surprise.”
Otis kissed her cheek; she swatted him away playfully. From across the room, I could smell the sour trace of liquor on her breath, but Otis’s face remained kind, judgment-free.
“Your text, Mom. Last night.” I kept my voice low, showing her the message.
She winced—so briefly it could’ve been a trick of the light. The thick layer of concealer covering her dark circles cracked slightly as she shook her head and pushed the phone back into my hand.
“How odd,” she said lightly, patting the chair beside her. “I just made pie. Why don’t you stay for a bite?”
I pushed down the sting of disappointment.
She didn’t hug me. Mom wasn’t soft arms that held you tight, almost suffocating. She wasn’t kisses on scratched knees, fussing over an elevated temperature. That role had been Dad’s. That overbearing sweetness that cocoons you in the certainty of unconditional love.
Her care wasn’t immediately obvious, but it padded the corners of my childhood with the overindulgence of too much butter cream. I couldn’t tell you the last time she told me she loved me. Not with her words anyway. But I could read it in the residue of flour underneath her fingernails nonetheless.
I went into the automatic routine of setting the table. Mom’s best china sat untouched on the shelf, covered with a thick layer of dust. Beside it a charcoal sketch I’d made of her, and a family portrait—well, just me and Dad.
I sometimes feared I’d forget his face. But seeing that photo was like looking in the mirror. Same sharp jawline. Same thick, almost-black hair. Same green eyes, their own special-shade. Christmas tree green. Black Forest green.
I’d come to Mom’s and look at this picture, and my stomach would unknot itself with a feeling like, Of course, this is what he looked like.
I bent to grab the everyday plates—the charity shop ones, not the ones for “special occasions” that never seemed to come. A wave of fatigue hit. My hands shook. I nearly dropped the stack.
“Liebling, Nora, is everything okay?”
I forced a smile. “Sure, Mom.”
“She’s been working like crazy, trying to pay—” Otis began. “To save for—” I shot him a look sharp enough to wound. My brain scrambled.
“A car.”
Even as I said it, I winced. That made zero sense. If you knew me at all, you knew Nora and cars did not mix.
Mom squinted at me. “A car? Whatever for?” Her voice stayed even, but her face had gone pale.
“Uhm…”
For most people, wanting a car would be reasonable.
But even before the accident, Mom thought they were unnecessary.
She’d grown up in Berlin. West Berlin, to be precise.
That strange little island wedged in the Soviet-controlled east, floating in the American-controlled west. You couldn’t go anywhere.
Half the city was its own micro-world. A strange cocktail of black-and-white TVs, queues for bananas, and forbidden Rolling Stones records.
It must have been an odd transition for her.
The borders of your life extending from half a city, to a country, then the world. Like a reverse Matryoshka doll.
Mom gave a vague “Mmh.” She didn’t believe me. But she didn’t push either. And for that I was grateful. The idea of telling her we might lose the shop made me dizzy.
“The neighbors told me Tobias’s wife is pregnant,” Mom said, pulling the coffee pot off the machine. “You two would’ve had such beautiful children.”
I swallowed a reply and mentally smacked myself for dodging the “we’re broke” talk only to walk right into the “Nora will die alone” one.
“That reminds me—Carol’s son is single again. I think he’s an attorney. Or a broker? I can’t quite remember. Handsome, that’s for sure.”
There was no point arguing that I was perfectly content on my own. That, just because she’d had the love of her life, not everyone needed to go through the same ordeal. I knew she meant well, but…
Otis made exaggerated kissing faces, then flashed a grin as soon as Mom turned to him. “Eva, I love what you’ve done with your hair today. You have to stop gatekeeping that perfect curl.”
My knight in kinky boots, rescuing me again.
The dull ache behind my eyes had morphed into a full-blown headache. The checkered pattern of Mom’s tablecloth danced in rotating spirals. I now fully understood why sleep deprivation was used as torture.
“Just a few hot rollers. And my neighbor Carol gave me a new set of highlights…” Mom flicked her hair mid-sentence and froze. “Nora Rose,” she said so loud I flinched.
She was staring past me. At the spot where I’d set down the last plate.
For anyone else, it would’ve just been an ordinary table—set for three, with a gorgeous-smelling apple pie at its center like an offering to a German deity.
But for my mother, I’d just declared Dad never existed.
The head of the table was, and always had been, his. Not hers. Not Otis’s. Certainly not mine.
I wasn’t sure if it was the lack of sleep or the constant reminder of what a disappointment I was, but I snapped.
“It’s just a plate, Mom. No one is sitting there. I think it’s time—”
“I decide when it’s time.”
Color rushed to her cheeks as if her own outburst startled her. Her bottom lip trembled. “This is my house. Don’t you—” Her voice caught mid-sentence. The heat in her face slowly faded. Otis shrank back into the shadows of the kitchen.
I adjusted the place setting, guilt already blooming. She tried. I knew she did.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“I don’t understand what’s going on with you today.” She smoothed her apron and flicked her hair back, the perfect mask sliding back into place. “You don’t seem like yourself. Let me set you up with—”
“I’m already dating someone,” I blurted, the words tumbling out before I could stop them.
Mom’s eyes widened. Otis’s eyes widened. I’m sure mine did too.
“You are?” Her voice was a hopeful whisper.
“Yes.” Might as well dig the grave deep enough to lie in comfortably.
She clasped her hands together, completely forgetting the plates. I could see how hard she was trying not to look relieved that her only daughter wouldn’t end up a crazy cat lady.
“Tell me everything. What’s his name? What does he do?”
I shot Otis a panicked look. He shrugged behind her back, mouthing You fix this mess.
“John,” I said, grabbing the first name that came to mind. “John Kater.”
Otis mouthed WTF.
I gripped the cutlery in front of me, trying to look super chill and very hungry.
“John,” Mom repeated with a sigh, lowering herself into the chair across from me. “What a nice, old-fashioned name. How old is he?”
I blinked. I could invent a fictional John—one that lived only in my head—or I could just pick a real one who shared the name. My brain, of course, chose chaos. And maybe half a lie was better than a whole one? Probably not.
“He’s thirty-four. A writer.”
Otis sat next to me and pinched my leg, like he was checking if the real Nora had been replaced by an alien clone.
Mom’s face lit up so brightly we could’ve turned off the lights and still had daylight.
“You had a date last night, didn’t you?”
I knew it was wrong. But she looked so happy.
“Yeah, I mean… we Skyped. He lives in Chicago.” Thank you, Wikipedia and today’s deep boredom.
She nodded enthusiastically. “Why didn’t you just tell me that from the start?”
“It’s very new.”
“Is he handsome? I’m sure he’s handsome.” She looked expectantly at me, then at Otis. Her sudden mood swing was borderline frightening. I could see her mentally decorating a wedding cake.
“Super handsome. Dark hair. Broad shoulders. Tall.”
Otis and Mom began gushing over my fake-but-actually-real boyfriend. I tried steering the conversation toward Otis’s play. No luck.
My phone buzzed.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, yanking it from my back pocket, grateful for the excuse to escape the kitchen—which now felt half its original size.
No caller ID.
“Just a second,” I said, as Mom asked, “Is it John?”
I ducked into the hallway and leaned against the door to my old room.
“Yes, this is Nora,” I said.
“Hello, Nora,” a female voice replied. “I’m Charlene Clark, Senior Editor at Haller & Mark.”
My heart leapt into my throat.
“Hi. Hi,” I said. Brillant.
She laughed. “I know you probably didn’t expect to hear from us this soon, but your submission was the first we reviewed—and halfway through, I already knew.”
Was I breathing? I wasn’t sure.
“What… what are you saying?”
“I’m calling to let you know we’ve selected your story for the next round.”
A squeal built in my chest. Was this real?
“That’s… great. Amazing, actually. Thank you.”
Mom’s head popped into the hallway. She must’ve mistaken my grin for swooning over “John.” I waved her off, but she didn’t budge.
“There are a few things that need revising—we’ll prepare a list with revision points.” Charlene continued.
I nodded, then remembered she couldn’t see me. “Yes. Great.”
“You and the other selected writers will receive feedback on the first day of the retreat. You’ll have five days to polish your manuscript for the next round.”
My stomach churned and lifted at the same time. It was a confusing feeling. THE Lew Elliot’s own retreat. The birthplace of the original Captain Caruso books. A sci-fi writer’s wet dream.
“Fantastic. I’ll take the time off.” Tired-Nora wasn’t thinking clearly. Tired-Nora had one focus and one focus only.
“Wonderful,” said the editor, whose name I’d already forgotten. “We’ll send you an itinerary and directions. We’re excited to see what you’ll do with the story.”
The moment I hung up, Mom asked, “Was that John? Are you going on a trip with him?”
Otis shoved more pie into his mouth but still managed to give me a ??? face.
“Yeah. I mean, I am going on a trip. Not for another two weeks, though.”
Otis’s eyes bugged out. I nodded. He did a little celebratory seat-dance.
Mom looked like she wanted to pinch my cheeks. “Oh, fantastic! And afterward, you two have to come for dinner.”