“Are you sure you don’t mind me coming over so much?”
“Oh my god, Gwennie, you are starting to drive me crazy. You ask me that every day. Stop. It’s unbecoming.”
“Okay,” she said, her voice as small and silly as she felt.
“I mean, don’t you like spending time together like this?” Leigh asked.
Suddenly she was the one who sounded small and insecure.
“Of course,” Gwen said. “I just don’t want to overstep or impose or whatever.”
Leigh twisted her mouth to the side. “I guess that makes me sad. I thought we were better friends than that.”
Gwen was confused.
“Good friends don’t worry about overstepping or imposing,” Leigh explained. “There’s this trust that they are there for each other, that it’s never a burden to be there for each other.”
Gwen nodded, taking in this definition of friendship. She didn’t think she’d ever had a friend like this, wasn’t sure she’d ever wanted one.It seemed too intertwined, too vulnerable, too messy. It seemed like it would ask too much of her.
“I hope we can be friends like that,” Leigh said.
Gwen wasn’t sure what to say. She felt both honored and intimidated.
“Do you hope that too?” Leigh asked.
This woman had been holding her hand, often literally, through the hardest phase of her life, so there was no other answer besides “Of course.”
“I’m so glad,” Leigh said.
They stood at the front door of the condo. Leigh wrapped her arms around Gwen and June. As she pulled away, she kissed Gwen’s cheek, not long, but longer than a relative would at a family reunion. Gwen had no idea what to make of it. She thought of that word, said in the British accent:indiscretion. Instinctively, she put her hand to her cheek, as if looking for a clue left there, something to explain the meaning of such an intimate gesture. There was nothing on Leigh’s face to suggest that this little kiss meant anything at all. This was probably how Leigh was—showing affection with a reckless abandon that was unfamiliar to Gwen. What was most bizarre was that Gwen, who had once been described as a “cold fish” by an ex-boyfriend, kind of liked it.
“Okay then,” Gwen said. She held June’s hand, waved it at Leigh and Belle. “See you ladies tomorrow.”
Chapter 22
Angeni Luna
Do not let others shame you out of being the best possible mother for your child.
Angeni figured if the @nurture.mother.official account was creating content in direct response to her content, she could create content in direct response to theirs. It wasn’t healthy to perpetuate this circular exchange of passive-aggressive energy, but there was also a satisfaction to it, and her soul felt desperate for satisfaction in whatever form she could get it.
She and Erik needed repair. Angeni spoke often of the importance of repair after fights. So often, relationships were destroyed not by fights but by insufficient repair. Repair, when done well, could bring a couple closer. It could make them see, with the benefit of hindsight, that the fight was actually good for their relationship. A quote from one of her webinars: “A relationship without repair will never last.”
The thing was, she couldn’t bring herself to apologize to Erik. This was their first big fight since having Freya. Before Freya, they were each other’s priority. They had the time and space to regulate their nervous systems and approach each other with kindness and compassion. Theyalmost always apologized simultaneously, one approaching the other and the other saying, “I was just going to come talk to you.” It was different now. She was busy with Freya. She couldn’t help but think he should be the one coming to her. She didn’t think she’d done anything wrong, except for sticking her middle finger in the air. That had been childish, but she wasn’t even sure he’d seen it. It would be simple enough to broach the subject of their tension, to say, “I know things have been difficult between us lately,” and let him take it from there—something they referred to as “the passing of the baton” in their relationship work—but she didn’t even want to do that. She was wallowing in feeling bitter and misunderstood, soaking herself in it like it was an Epsom salt bath that had long ago gone cold.
When Sitka appeared in the kitchen for her usual breakfast of peanut-butter-and-jam toast, Freya clapped her little hands with joy. Every time Freya saw Sitka, she acted as if she hadn’t seen her in days.
“Morning,” Sitka said, opening the fridge. “Does Freya need to eat?”
“No, I just fed her,” Angeni said.
It was a lie. She had tried to feed Freya. Her boobs were fuller than usual because Freya hadn’t cried to eat at her usual early-morning time. They’d all slept—Angeni, Freya, Sitka—right until daybreak, which had never happened before. Sitka had brought the baby to Angeni, elated at what a long stretch of sleep she’d had, but Angeni was worried that Freya had gone so long without eating. She excused Sitka and put Freya on her boobs, but the baby’s head just bobbed about, her lips refusing to envelop Angeni’s nipples. Angeni had tried to coax her on, pushing gently on the back of her head, but Freya kept thrashing about, turning her head this way and that. Angeni couldn’t think of a reason for it. Freya didn’t seem sick. Angeni hadn’t used a new soap on her body or eaten something unusual that would affect the scent of her milk. Everything was the same as every other day, except for Freya’s disinterest.
Her daughter’s not-subtle rejection of her body was just one more reason for Angeni’s foul mood. Another reason: She had received an email from her editor that morning sayingI’ve been thinking that your book would really do well as more of a memoir. Memoirs are all the rage right now. Thoughts?
She had only one thought: She could not write a memoir.
“I think I’m going to skip my writing time for today,” Angeni told Sitka.
