“I had my people scrub my calendar. I wrote handwritten apologies on the drive over to everyone I’d miss. Don’t worry about that. I’m here for you,” she says, affected in a way I’m not used to. She grabs my hand in hers. It’s a tender moment that I want to be true, but can’t be sure about. “I hope you don’t hate me too much for sending you here.”
There’s a frightful forwardness and uncomfortable intensity to the statement. She either wants to evoke the right reaction or she means it. I can never tell with her what’s real and what’s fiction.
“No, it’s been…” I fumble over what to say. “It’s been good, actually.” And I mean it. From the bottom of my heart, the sentence resonates with a truth even I’m surprised by.
She gives me a satisfied smile from behind her teacup. Does she suspect something, or is she relieved?
“That’sgood.” She sips for a while, putting us in a holding pattern. Does she want to say something else? “I won’t get in your way these next couple of days. You’ll be able to finish planning the gala and getting everything in order. I’m going to relax for the first time in what feels like forever. No writing and no calls. I’m going completely dark as well.”
“That’s not like you,” I say suspiciously. Mine was a punishment. Hers is elective? To prove her point, she sets her phone on airplane mode and slips it into her bag.
“Planning a gala for someone other than yourself is not like you either, but perhaps we’re all due for some growth.” She clasps her hands in front of her. “Speaking of which, your father and I have agreed that should all go well at the gala, you’re free to return home and throw your New Year’s Eve party.”
Her words rock me to my core. Leave? So soon? It’s hard to consider, even though that had been my original goal from the start. So much—too much, maybe—has shifted.
“You’re serious?” I ask. Amid all the planning, I forgot to even check in with Bentley to see if she’s completed any of the urgent tasks from the brimming folder I sent her.
“We’re impressed with the initiative you’re taking. Christmas cookies? Light walk-throughs? It’s all very unlike you, which was the desired outcome,” she says, though I’m unsure whether she knows how much like an insult that sounds.
I’m confused. “Is Sarah Pearson in on this? Was she consulted?”
“Miss Pearson is not your mother. I’m your mother. And I think I can make whatever decisions I so choose as such,” she says. “Unless you’d rather stay, which by all means go ahead and do so if you don’t want to spend the holiday with your father and me, but—”
“No! I do. It’s just…” It’s all I’ve wanted since tradition slipped through our fingers. It’s why I’ve tried to convince myself I hate Christmas. Create distance to avoid the colossal letdown. “I wasn’t expecting that.” My whisper nearly gets drowned out by the clanking of cups and the incoming of a new, chatty group. Processing is impossible, especially when I was hoping for this outcome all along. It’s like a fever dream, yet it churns like a nightmare. Never did I imagine having something—someone—here that would make leaving unimaginable.
Any second now, I’m going to wake up in my bottom bunk with a dewy forehead and a backache. I’m sure of it.
Except there’s Mom, in the flesh, sitting across from me, squinting over her strawberry jam sandwich. “Again, impress me with the gala, and the Town Car will be waiting.” I don’t need her to lay out the alternative, which is that I’ll finish my sentence here and then come back to New York quietly in the new year.
Hector swims into mind. I don’t think I’m ready to leave him, and parsing that out is going to take time, time that I sincerely don’t have.
The conversation pivots away from the heavy stuff. She asks about the gala and about what embarrassing stories Grandma and Gramps have told me about her. I tell her about getting the tree, Noelle, and Arthur. There’s a massive shift in her expression at the mention of his name. I file that face away for later and finish my tea.
By the end of our time together, both my heart and stomach are overstuffed.
Chapter 29
When I return to Grandma and Gramps’s place, the two of them head back out to meet Mom in town. She’s treating them to dinner at A Very Fine Vine, a nice gesture that feels more genuine now that I’ve come around to the idea of her here. Even if she was acting slightly strange.
The house is silent, a calm I’ve finally gotten used to. I wonder if Hector is in our room, out back, or on a ride. I haven’t heard from him since he dropped me off this afternoon, and as the day ticks away into darkness, I realize we have the place to ourselves for at least a few hours.
When I skip downstairs, I find Hector’s bed made, his books all arranged, and not a single piece of clothing lying on the brown carpeted floor. It’s uncharacteristically clean.
Hector’s perched on the edge of my bunk with a copy ofA Christmas Carolopen in his lap. It’s the copy I haphazardly pulled from his stack on the night of my not-so-great escape. He’s running his fingers over my liner notes like he can decipher more through touch than sight alone.
A floorboard creaks below me, giving away my position. He snaps the book shut.
“I notice you’ve cleaned up,” I say.
“Oh, yeah. Nervous habit.”
“What are you nervous about?”
He makes apahpahpahsound before admitting, “Something stupid.”
“Doesn’t sound stupid,” I say, remembering how he made my coping mechanism feel like the most normal, natural thing in the world not so long ago.
“I was afraid your mom was here to take you home and that you’d leave tonight,” he says. I shift my weight. The heat of his care crackles between us. I’m tempted to poke the embers and see what other feelings might spark. Instead, I reassure him the way I’d want to be if I were in his shoes.
