In the Uber back to our downtown hotel, I nudge her. She doesn’t respond, staring resolutely out the car window at the lit-up billboards along the freeway.
“Don’t be mad,” I cajole. “Did you see how happy they were?”
She shakes her head, still not over it. “I don’t care about that,” she says.
I jiggle her knee. “They’re your parents.”
“So what?” she says, her voice clipped. “Should our lives revolve around pleasing our families?”
Whoa.She’s really pissed—I haven’t seen her like this in a long time. Mar is the chill one, eternally unflappable even in the face of crises.
“Where is this coming from?” I ask. “We’ve been planning to move here for the show all along. Why are you freaking out?”
She’s silent for a long beat, worrying her fingers. “Things have changed.” I wait for her to elaborate, but she doesn’t.
My sigh is weary. “I know, I fucked up. I’m sorry.” I bite the inside of my cheek, the smell of the leftovers Sosi packed in yogurt containers too strong in the small back seat. My stomach churns. “I’m going to figure something out,” I assure her. “We’ll still move here. Don’t worry.”
I reach for her hand, which remains tense in mine. She keeps her eyes trained out the car window, watching the freeway lights zip by in a blur.
I vow to fix this. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll put a smile back on Mar’s face. I’ll make sure she’s happy,andthat our parents are happy. I’ll take care of them—I always do.
Chapter 17
After the late-summer smog of Southern California, the temperate East Coast climate of Boston is a welcome relief. People here complain endlessly about cold winters, but I’ve always liked the changing seasons. How can you enjoy summer if you don’t struggle through the browbeating of an East Coast winter? Dad had an oft-repeated line on those blustery below-zero days:If you didn’t already know you’re alive, now you do.
Winter in New York takes my love of the season to a whole other level—the way a fresh dusting of snow makes the streets, parks, and buildings feel clean and even more picturesque than they already are, temporarily muting the eternal high-frequency commotion before the filth and noise regain their upper hand. It’s magical.
As the shuttle zips us into the city from Logan airport, I text Mom that we’ve arrived safely, and that I’m looking forward to seeing her at the event this evening. The ellipses that indicate she’s writing back appear and disappear a few times before the gray text box finally pops up:Arent you coming to the house?
My teeth clench. We talked about this—there isn’t time to get from the airport to her place and back to the South End bookstore in time for the event. Mar booked a car to bring Mom to thebookstore and everything—surely she remembers this, given the earful she gave me about it (A car! Is it the Oscars? Do I need to make an appointment to hug my own daughter?). But I know she just misses me and this is her way of expressing her discontent with the plans, whether she knew them in advance or not.
I force my jaw to relax and type back:I’m sorry, Mayrik, there isn’t time. I’ll see you at the event. We’ll go to the house together after.
Sleeping at my parents’ bungalow in Dorchester, where we moved when I was twelve, is not exactly enticing. To me, it still carries the pall of my last year there.It’s just two nights,I remind myself.
Never mind that the thought of two more nights without Ryan makes me restless. As if by some unspoken agreement, neither of us has made a move toward the other since Kissgate and its fallout, and the sexual frustration rattling through me is a living thing. Now I have to go two more agitated, sleepless nights without him.
And then…we’re heading back to New York. Where hopefully he’ll still be employed.
And this…thingbetween us will be over.
We can’t bring it home with us. Ryan needs to hold on to his job, if it’s still his. Even if there wasn’t a conflict of interest, Ryan won’t be content with a no-strings kind of arrangement—that’s becoming as clear as smog-free air. And I don’t do any other kind of arrangement. So…end of story.
The car feels too small suddenly, my perfume too strong. In the seat ahead of me, Ryan’s hair curls a little at the nape of his neck. I know how that part of his body smells. I know what those dark strands feel like between my fingers. I don’t know if my senses will ever forget.
I find myself searching through my messages for the familiar names from my in-phone Rolodex that used to give me a little spark of excitement—Evan, Malcolm, Jacob—hoping that just seeing them, the promise of the sexual delights they have to offer,will settle this gnawing creature in my esophagus. But no dice. Their names seem distant, as though they belong in another life.
It’s just travel,I tell myself. A lot has happened in the past couple of weeks—it makes sense that people from home would feel far away. Even if they never have before. As soon as I’m back in my apartment, back to my daily routines, I’m sure hitting them up will feel just the same as it always did.
Perfectly satisfying.
The drive from the airport to More than Words Bookstore is mercifully short, because too much time staring out at the cityscape and harbor will not help me put on my event face. Every corner of this city is chockablock with memories, many of which used to be sweet, but have since become tinged with bitterness. The seafood restaurant I took my parents to as a celebration when I scored in the ninety-ninth percentile on the MCAT. The Lawn on D, where Nathan and I attended a concert on one of our first dates. All the streets I’ve run, working out the stresses of school, of work…of home. Long walks along the waterfront when I needed space from my parents’ house, or the apartment Nathan and I shared, or when I moved back in with Mom after Dad passed, outside being the only safe place to let the waves crash over me. Alone.
My knee feels warm and I notice Maral’s small hand there. She squeezes gently, acknowledging that there may be capital-F Feelings happening. She knows I won’t talk about them, but she’s offering me bare-minimum support—the only kind I’ll accept. I place my hand on hers and squeeze back.
When we pull up to the store, Ryan opens the back door for us before helping the driver unload our bags from the trunk. The brief touch of his hand on my waist as I emerge from the car sends a frisson of want through me, and I wonder how bad it would be to kiss him publicly again.
Bad, Ana.Don’t jump back into the hole you just climbed out of.
