My phone buzzes with a text.
Giuliana
Don't let them get to you. You'll figure it out when you're ready.
I'm typing back a thank-you when I hear the familiar sound of a key in my lock, followed by a voice that always makes me smile.
“Knock, knock,” Stella calls out as the door opens. “Hope you're decent.”
“Decent enough,” I call back, closing my laptop and standing up to greet her.
She appears in my living room, carrying a takeout container and looking slightly flushed from what I'm guessing was one of her yoga classes with Natalie. She's in leggings and an oversized sweatshirt, her blonde hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, and there's something about the casual comfort of her presence that immediately settles the restless energy left over from the family call.
“Avocado bacon Benedict from that place across from the yoga studio,” she announces, holding up the container like a peace offering. “Figured you probably haven't eaten anything real today.”
“You figured right,” I admit, accepting the food gratefully. “How'd you know I needed this?”
“You always want food.” She studies my expression with the kind of perceptive attention that makes me wonder sometimes how she reads people so well. “You have that post-family-call look on your face. Everyone still trying to run your life from three thousand miles away?”
“Something like that.” I settle back onto the couch and gesture for her to join me. “Want to split this? It's huge.”
“I already ate with Natalie, but thanks.” She perches on the edge of the coffee table instead, close enough that I can smell her perfume mixed with the faint scent of her sweat. “Everything okay, though? You look a little…”
“Contemplative?”
“I was going to say brooding, but contemplative works, too.”
I fork a bite of the Benedict, which is absolutely perfect, and consider how much to share. Stella and I have an easy friendship that comes with the kind of comfortable honesty and no expectations of each other. She's safe to talk to, partly because she's not trying to fix me or change me and partly because she's dealing with her own complicated feelings about life and love. But mostly, it's because she's never once looked at me and seen dollar signs or opportunities.
When she looks at me, she sees someone worth her time and attention. Someone whose opinion matters to her, whose stories she actually listens to and whose dreams she takes seriously. She challenges me to think bigger about my career, celebrates my wins like they're her own, and never makes me feel like I need to be anything other than exactly who I am. There's something freeing about that kind of trust.
“Just family stuff,” I say finally. “They want me to think about the future.”
“Ah. The dreaded 'what's your five-year plan' conversation.”
“More like the 'when are you going to give us grandchildren and join the family business' conversation.”
Stella nods knowingly. “I get versions of that call, too. Different content, same underlying message.” She checks her phone and stands. “Hang in there and don't worry too much. I'll let you eat in peace, I've got to return some email.”
“Thanks for this,” I say, holding up the container. “And for checking on me.”
“Anytime.” She heads toward the door, then pauses and turns back. “Hey, Brandon?”
“Yeah?”
“For what it's worth, I think you're exactly where you're supposed to be right now. You've got plenty of time to figure out exactly what you want.”
six
. . .
Stella
I'mdeep in a Google rabbit hole about Mason Park when my phone rings. The screen shows a photo of my mother in her perfectly coordinated tennis outfit, her blonde hair in a flawless bob, holding a martini at last year's charity gala.
I steel myself for the conversation and answer on the third ring.
“Hey, Mama.”
