But I went on laughing and crying and just fucking trembling through the enormity of these feelings. I was a boiling kettle, screeching and steaming while everyone watched. They offered tissues and water, and chocolate and even a Xanax at one point. But there was only one way to quiet a kettle, and I didn't know how to turn down the heat.
"Magnolia," my mother whispered. She looked at me, her eyes wide. "Magnolia, what's wrong?"
"You-you-you-you," I stammered between laughs, "you th-think I'm not trying but you have no idea what I'm going through."
"Then tell me." She held out her hands as if it was that simple. And maybe it was. Maybe I was too far down this path to see the light anymore but it felt far from simple. "Tell me what you're going through. Maybe I can help."
I shook my head, already feeling the heaviness of a cry-graine creeping in. "I stopped using the apps," I started with a sniffle, "because I think I'm falling in love and my life is a m-m-m-m-mess."
My mother's mouth fell open. She quickly recovered, asking, "Is he married? Please don't tell me he's married. You know better than to get involved in that kind of situation again."
Again.
I would've kept laughing if I wasn't busy seething over that word.
Again.
I'd made some mistakes. I knew that without the reminder. I'd made mistakes, and it took me longer to learn from some of them than others. But figuring it out was the sticky side of growing tired of your own bullshit. Learning to love your flawed, fragile self required a thick foundation of hard-packed mistakes and a ruthless devotion to never committing them again.
Again.
"That's not fair," I said. "I didn't know Peter was married. Sure, I missed some of the warning signs but I didn't knowingly get involved with a married man, Mom. I wouldn't do that."
"So, he isn't married?"
I rolled my eyes, barked out a laugh. "No. Not married."
She shrugged, waiting for an explanation.
I'd often thought about how I'd present the coincidence of Rob and Ben to my family. In my head, it always took place after the summer, after our arrangement ended. After I'd chosen.
But the reality of making a choice between Rob and Ben—crowning a victor—sank in my belly like a stone. This wasn't a season finale and these men weren't contestants and I wasn't taking long, contemplative walks on a deserted beach while a film crew caught my every frown and far-off gaze. This was my real life, and choosing one of these men meant building a relationship on uneven ground.
All the power sat in my hands. It'd been fun for a time. It'd been nice to feel adored, cherished, special. I'd never been special, not in the ways that it mattered. But I wasn't meant to keep this power.
"Is your period starting? Is that what this is about? You're feeling a little PMS-y?"
I lifted my palms to my eyes. "Oh my god. Mom. No. Just…no."
She huffed out a breath. "It's a fair question," she said. "You're not usuallythisdramatic and believe me—hormones can make you crazy."
"Thanks," I murmured. "That's really helpful."
She shifted toward me, her arm brushing against mine. "If he's not married, what's the problem?"
"There are two of him," I replied. "That's the problem."
"Okay. He's a twin," she mused. "There's no way you'll have less than two babies at once but that's nothing to cry about."
"That's the only way this could be worse," I said. "If they were twins." I shuddered at the thought of my brothers dating the same woman. Good god. "Not twins. Two separate men. I'm seeing two men who are not twins."
My mother arched both eyebrows. "Are you kidding me?"
"Does it look like I'm kidding?" I gestured toward my face. I didn't need to see my reflection to know I was a puffy, red mess. "Does any of this look like a joke to you?"
It didn't matter how loud I spoke because everyone was already tuned into this meltdown. Of course, they were. Nothing happened to me in private. Every critical moment in my life unfolded with an audience. It made me wonder—if I wasn't judged, did it even happen? I wasn't sure. I wasn't sure but I was completely certain I was done with this, all of this. The judging, the arched eyebrows, theagain, the constant sense that I still wasn't doing it right.
Just fucking finished.
