“Probably not.” I shrug. “I don’t like how it ends.”
She makes that littletsking sound that has gotten under my skin since I was a child. “No one does. Most people don’t think about that part. They just get busy making a life with someone.”
“I can’tnotthink about that part, Mom. I’ve lived through it—just barely. I know how crushing it is.”
“That doesn’t mean you should give up on the best part of life.”
“Are you talking about sex? Because if you are, a, yuck, and b, you don’t have to be married to do that anymore.”
“I’m talking about love. Obviously.” She puts her mug down a little too hard, surprising us both as the liquid sloshes up and onto the table. Letting out a big sigh, she gets up and walks to the sink to retrieve a dishcloth. “You can’t let what happened to Isaac stop you from falling in love again.”
“Says the woman who’s been with the same man since she was a teenager.” I fix her with the icy stare I perfected when I was fourteen.
She ignores my dig and wipes the table. “You know, Abby, the way you spend each of your days adds up to your whole life.”
“Well, thank you, Oprah. Is that one of the things you know for sure?”
“It won’t work on me, you know.”
“What won’t?”
“The act. I see through you, Abby. And it’s very clear that you have feelings for that man who just walked out the door.”
I busy myself scrolling through my Pinterest feed. “Yes, it’s called friendship.”
“Don’t waste your days wishing for Isaac to reappear. Let yourself have something wonderful again before it’s too late.”
With that, she gets up and walks out of the room. A moment later, I hear the washing machine start up downstairs. How the hell did she find more dirty clothes? I’ve been in the same pajamas for two days.
* * *
Over the next several days, I work on my novel, tweaking and cutting and smoothing it out so I can send it to Lauren for her notes. I can only manage to sit at my computer for an hour at a time and it’s slow going with my right arm in a cast, but each hour is a mini-success. This morning I had a shower and actually put on real clothes, which, although normally wouldn’t be considered note-worthy, felt like a victory for me.
Liam has gone to pick Olive up from school and I use the time to wrap up the final chapter of my book. I write a quick email to Lauren, and once I hit send, I stare at my inbox, happy but tired. I actually did it, even without my favorite editor to give me his notes.
The smell of chocolate chip cookies draws me into the kitchen where I find my mom at the sink scrubbing the baking sheet. She and Olive have become natural allies, having complementary needs—Olive’s need to eat sweets, and my mom’s need to feed people.
She glances up at me. “So? Did you get it done?”
“I did.” I sit down in front of a large plate of warm cookies that have obviously been set out for Olive. Picking one up, I take a bite.
“Good for you,” she says, crossing the room to give me a kiss on the top of my head. “Were you ever worried you’d never get it back?”
Nodding, I say, “For a long time, I was sure it would never happen.”
“Yet it did.” She gives me a meaningful look.
“It’s not the same thing, Mom.” My mouth is full of gooey goodness, so I’m unable to properly form an argument.
The sound of the front door allows a nice, long pause in the conversation I don’t want to have. My mom wipes her hands on a towel and hurries to greet Liam and Olive. I hear his voice, then Olive’s as she shows my mother which of the feather toys is Walt’s favorite and that ‘this is how you bounce it just right for him.’
My heart speeds up when Liam appears at the entrance to the kitchen, and I instinctively cover my cheek. “Come have a celebratory cookie with me.”
He smiles but I can see he looks worried about me as he crosses the room. “What are we celebrating?”
“I just sent my book to my agent.”
Liam’s face spreads into a huge grin and he leans toward me as though he might hug me, but then he straightens up. “Good for you, Abby.”
