Chapter 13
Chapter
Two and a half months ago, I was on the phone with Mom, talking about some minor disappointment.
I don’t even remember what, now. I was confident it had drifted into “funny story” territory by that time, but it must have sounded too much like whining to her.
She scoffed and said, “Well, most of us don’t get what we want in life. ”
It was so passive-aggressive and loaded, I had to take the bait.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, you know.” She sighed. “It’s not like this is what I expected when I pictured having a daughter.”
God, the way she could say things so airily, and they could slice so deep.
“What did you expect, Mom?”
She made a noise that said, Don’t tempt me with a good time! “You’re not going anywhere in your life, Ruby! You’re languishing in this entry-level role at a third-tier company—six years without a promotion!”
“Look, I’m trying my best, but—”
“And you’re so closed off! You don’t socialize! You’ve always been like that, since you were little. I try so hard to—” Her voice caught. “I’m always trying so hard to make people like me. It’s how I got this far. Can’t you even make an effort?”
You think I don’t desperately want people to like me? I wanted to shout. But I knew if I did, I might lose control and start crying, so I bit my tongue instead.
Mom sighed again on the other end of the phone, so far away. “And you’re alone there. What about finding someone to take care of you?”
Like that worked out so well for you? I thought, uncharitably, but didn’t say. That’s another thing she always wanted but didn’t get: someone to take care of her.
“Life is harder alone,” she went on, and I just wanted to go to sleep then.
“Sure, Mom,” I said in a weak little voice. “I’ll try.”
And that was the last time we talked.
I’m standing in the pink-tiled bathroom at home, spiral notebook pressed against the counter, ballpoint pen frantically working.
Mom’s in my Slack DM. It must be my fault she’s trapped at work, but maybe that means I can do something about it.
A tear splashes down on the page, and I swipe at my cheek roughly with my palm. I can’t cry, I have too much to do!
I straighten and review the list, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, head covered in curlers.
I used to hear people talk about styling hair—someone on TV, a girl at school in passing—and I’d think, God, isn’t life already exhausting enough?
When you can just let your hair sit there, why complicate it?
But some basic research suggests that’s why my hair is always a frizzy mess.
It makes me feel incompetent and itchy, learning that even something growing out of my head is more complicated than I realized.
My right foot is balanced up on the counter, foam holder wedged between my toes, red polish drying. And I read back over the list.
1. BE SOCIAL AND NORMAL
It pained her, the way I was always a bit weird, sharp-edged and awkward, not charming like she wanted.
We had a screaming fight one night in my senior year because I told her I wasn’t going to prom, even though she’d been vicariously excited for it. I work so hard to raise you, and you don’t even give me these milestones to look forward to?
I didn’t want to go just to see Greg dancing with someone else. We’d kissed twice in the fall that year, and by spring, we were hanging out with totally different groups of people.
But later that night, hugging my pillow in bed, I thought, Wow, selfish of you. Couldn’t even do this one thing for her when she does so much for you.
The crumpled high school reunion invitation is nestled between the pages of the notebook, retrieved from where I’d jammed it in the passenger-door pocket of my car.
It’s not exactly prom, but it’s a chance for something like a do-over. I can go to a function and rewrite high school, make a show of being more like the daughter she wanted back then.
SUB-ITEM: MAKE MORE OF AN EFFORT WITH YOUR APPEARANCE
That’s something Mom was always saying in the mornings before school—a source of constant tension between us. And one time when I said they don’t grade on appearance, she replied, They should if they want to prepare you for life. Every little thing adds up.
Every little failure can snowball. That was a theme for her.
So now my nails are this shade of tomato, and I’m trying not to smudge them.
2. GO SOMEWHERE IN YOUR LIFE (PROMOTION?)
Mom probably would have been happy—is happy?—to see me at TKCORP. But it was basically a lateral move.
3. BE WARM AND PLEASANT AND MAKE PEOPLE LIKE YOU AT WORK
Ugh.
4. BE CLOSER TO FAMILY
Ugh ugh.
When I think about the ways I didn’t manage to be the daughter my mother wanted, I remember the look on her face, the weight in her voice, when she’d say, Why don’t you write to your aunt and uncle?
Why don’t you reach out to your cousins?
Why don’t you make more of an effort? Family will be there when no one else is.
Mom was unhappy with me so much of the time—I would put off seeing our family, scared they’d feel the same, if they got a good enough look. But maybe that’s the missing piece, her big regret. It’s worth investigating, at least.
5. DATE SOMEONE IN A HIGHER TAX brACKET
Mark Winterson pops into my mind, so unexpectedly glad to see me.
But I’m getting ahead of myself! There’s a lot to rule out first.
The doorbell chimes, and I check the app for the Ring that Mom had gotten installed a few years back.
Greg’s standing on my front steps holding a casserole dish.
Not now, I’m busy trying to fix all my flaws at once! Come back later!
My leg jiggles and my chest feels tight. But the longer I stare at him on the video screen, the more I think it would be nice to see a friendly face.
Then I glance in the mirror and realize I still have hair removal cream smeared all over my upper lip.
I text him one-handed—just a minute!—as I hop over to grab some toilet paper and wipe away the burning cream. And I pad through the house to the front door and wave him inside.
“My mom made too much kare-kare,” he says, lifting the casserole dish. I’m already salivating, thinking about eating it over rice—the tender beef, string beans, and eggplant, all stewed in a thick peanut sauce.
Greg is staring at me, for some reason, while he slips his shoes off. “Is this a bad time?”
“Why?”
“You, uh—” He gestures around his head, reminding me of the curlers I have on. “Getting ready to go somewhere?”
“Oh, shut up,” I say, and he laughs.
“Where can I put…?” He lifts the dish again.
“Oh—oh right. Um—the fridge.”
Greg heads for the kitchen, and I follow him. Of course he knows where everything is. It’s been a while since he was in my house, and my heart is pounding so uncomfortably.
He finds a place for the food and stares at me some more as he closes the fridge.
“What are you looking at?” I demand.
A small smile spreads on his face as he gestures vaguely above his mouth. “It’s a little…red here?”
My hand flies reflexively to cover my upper lip, and I drop the notebook that was wedged under my arm.
Greg bends to pick it up before I can.
“Hey!” I grab for it as he starts reading the list, but he holds it up higher, away from me, like we’re fourteen again.
He squints at it, trying to decipher my wild handwriting. “Potential sources of unfinished business?”
“I’m trying to rule things out. Like your mom said.”
He frowns. “Date someone in a higher tax bracket?”
“There are lots of things to rule out first!” I reach feebly for the notebook, but he’s still got it raised high. “And…I mean, what’s a date or two?”
“Not going to lie,” Greg says pointedly. “I’m pretty worried about you.”
“Why do you suddenly care?” I snap. “You seemed perfectly fine not knowing what was going on with me for years.”
Greg’s arm droops, and I snatch the notebook back from him.
It’s a bad look, letting the venom creep into my tone. I promised myself a long time ago: Pretend nothing happened. That this doesn’t bother you so much. Then you won’t have to feel pathetic on top of feeling hurt.
Greg’s stare skewers me under the weak yellow kitchen light. “Of course I care,” he says levelly. “You seemed like you didn’t want to talk to me, but…” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “It’s not like I stopped caring about you.”
I try to ignore the tingling in my gut. “Why did you tell Morgan there was no story here?”
The corner of Greg’s mouth turns up, and I realize I just admitted to eavesdropping. “Didn’t want her talking about you.” He laughs and shakes his head. “I missed you, Ruby. We were friends for a long time. That doesn’t just go away.”
It’s weird for him to be earnest. The Greg I remember would try to avoid it whenever possible—deflect with a joke, distract me with a tired smile and a change of subject.
“I know we’re not close like that anymore,” Greg says slowly. “But it’s nice having you back here. And this is a fucked-up situation, and if you think this will help—” He points at the notebook clutched to my chest. “You’re not alone here, okay?”
My vision is blurring, heat and moisture pooling in the corners of my eyes.
“Let me help you with this,” he says. “Please.”
How fucking dare he, when it’s so much safer to be mad at him? Who does he think he is?
“Hey.” Greg pulls my trembling shoulders closer, folding me into a hug. He must still use the same lemon zest soap he liked in high school. The familiar smell wraps me up, warmed by his own scent underneath, sun and salt and something I can’t name. Some things really don’t change.
“Shh, shh,” he says, because before I realize it, I’m crying into his shoulder, big, ugly, shuddering sobs. “Hey—hey, it’s okay, Ruby. It’s okay.”
I could barely respond to his Slack messages the other day, and now I’m getting snot on his T-shirt?
“Have you…talked to her more?” Greg asks tentatively.
I pull back and cross my arms with a sharp sniff. “No.”
Every time I try to type something, there are too many things to say, crowding inside my head, and I choke.
“I still don’t know how to talk to her.” I wipe my face aggressively, trying to recover my dignity. “It’s like she never left, that way.”
Greg chuckles softly, more air than sound. I feel like shit for how hard it’s been to talk to Mom, now that I have something so many grieving daughters would want: a second chance. But it feels less bad, standing in front of someone who knows us both well enough to laugh at that.
I let my head flop backward with exasperation. One of my curlers falls out and rolls away underneath the kitchen table, so Greg crouches to retrieve it.
He takes a few steps closer, depositing the curler in my open palm, and his eyes meet mine. Those irises I still know by heart. The particular pattern of black flowering out amid the dark brown, the placement of the gold flecks.
“Tell me how I can help?” he asks. “With your list.”
My heart swells uncomfortably, too big for the shrunken place it usually fills in my chest.
It reminds me of the time he came over in middle school, when Mom had just bought a new dresser from IKEA. One moment he was peering at it curiously, and the next he was sitting on our floor with all the parts laid out around him, assembling it for us.
Sure, Greg made a mistake ten years ago: kissing his best friend when he wasn’t that into her. Hasn’t the statute of limitations on that crime expired by now? I should be able to let it go.
“Okay, um…” My hand goes nervously to my head, and the curlers rattle. “If you really want to…you could come with me to this?”
I slide the crumpled invitation out of the notebook and pass it to him.
“Be my wingman,” I add too fast.
Greg’s smile flickers for a second as he looks at the paper in his hand. “Sure, Ruby,” he says, and that easy grin I remember comes back. “We can do that.”