Me
People, Mum. Plural.
Mum
Mm-hmm. Are you eating? You’ve been looking thin lately.
Me
I literally just ate two bizarrely delicious burgers.
Mum
Good boy. Come home safe. Love you to the moon and back. And a few more trips. xx
Me
Love you, Mum. Call me if you need anything.
I sit with the phone in my hand and think about the conversation that just happened, the one that looks identical to every other exchange we’ve had for years. Her pretending she’s fine. Me pretending I’m fine. Both of us fluent in the same warm, careful lie.
After what seems like an entire season of random TikTok videos of food-eating competitions, Celeste finally finishes her shower. The bathroom door hinges release a nearly imperceptible sigh as it swings open, releasing a cloud of lavender-scented moisture into the room.
Celeste emerges wrapped in one of the hotel robes—white, enormous, swallowing her frame so completely she looks like a very elegant ghost. Her face is scrubbed clean. No makeup. No jewelry. No armor. Without the foundation and the mascara and the architectural precision she applies to her appearance like structural engineering, she looks different. Not younger, exactly. Unguarded. Like a rough sketch where all the essential lines are visible but none of the polish.
Her eyes are red but she’s steady. The crying is finished. Tucked away in whatever compartment Celeste stores the things she doesn’t want anyone to witness.
She cinches the robe higher. “Do I look like I just escaped a hospital ward?”
“A very exclusive, fancy hospital ward.”
“Thank you. That’s exactly the energy I was going for.” She peers over at the kitchenette. “Please tell me there’s wine.”
I investigate. The minibar is stocked like a small, curated liquor store—the kind that charges by the adjective. I find a bottle of something French and red and pour two glasses, feeling mildly fraudulent because I couldn’t tell you the difference between a table blend and a Malbec if my life depended on it.
Celeste accepts the glass, settles into the far corner of the sectional, and tucks her legs beneath her. The robe fans out around her like a wedding gown. She takes a sip, closes her eyes, and lets out a breath that seems to originate from her toes.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask, taking the opposite end of the couch. “Or do you want to not talk about it?”
“I want to not talk about it. But if we sit in silence, I’ll spiral, and spiraling in a bathrobe feels especially bleak.” She opens her eyes. “TV?”
Mounted above the fireplace, angled toward the sectional, lies the perfect distraction. I find the remote on the coffee table and click it on. A streaming menu appears.
“What are we watching?” I ask.
“Something with zero emotional depth. Something where the biggest problem is whether the popular girl gets asked to prom.”
I scroll, and with the enthusiasm of a toddler receiving a popsicle, she suddenly shrieks.
“Stop.That one.”
My thumb pauses on the down arrow. “This one?She’s All That?”
Celeste’s face transforms. The grief, the exhaustion, the worry lines that have been etched into her forehead since approximately six o’clock this morning—all of it vanishes, replaced by the expression of a woman who has just been reunited with something she loves.
“Oh my God. Yes. You’ve never seenShe’s All That?”
“No. Is it an older movie?”
