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I show up to Mom’s new home, a large, sleek building with tons of amenities, an hour before the party. Hannah gives me a banner to hang in the community room, which they’ve rented out for the party. She tells me we can’t use any adhesive on the walls, so I climb onto a precariously wobbly bar table to try to tie it to the exit sign affixed to the ceiling.
When I knot the string with a little too much gusto and start to fly backward, I feel strong hands grip my hips to settle me onto the ground. I turn to say hello, but Henry’s back is to me before I can even right my brain.
Once the party is underway, I can’t help but smile at how happy Kristine and Mom look. They introduce me to some new neighbors from the building, and I greet lots of my mom’s coworkers and friends I’ve known since I was in diapers.
Seeing how full my mother’s life is now gives me a twinge of guilt for not being around more, but realizing the full picture of the community that she and Kristine have built together makes me feel oddly hopeful.
I want a life that’s bigger than the apartment I’ve hidden myself away in for the last few months. I want to learn how to let people into my world, how to trust them.
How to trust myself.
Mom taps on a plastic champagne flute, which doesn’t exactly have the intended effect, so Kristine gives a whistle, and the room falls silent.
My sister, ever the instigator, shouts, “Kiss!” and the fiancées have no choice but to oblige.
When they pull away, my mom swipes her thumb at the corner of Kristine’s mouth, catching some rogue lipstick. Kristine grabs her hand, kissing the inside of her wrist with so much tenderness it feels like far too intimate an action for this audience of thirty-five of their closest friends and family members.
They’re going to be together for the rest of their lives. I sensed this before, but now it’s abundantly clear.
My eyes mist and I glance away from them, unavoidably drawn to Henry, who’s standing in the corner of the room by a large plastic monstera plant.
Henry gives a slight nod, as if he just read my thoughts and agrees.
I take the gesture as an invitation, and make my way over to him. If I didn’t know Henry so well, I’d think he looked the same as he did when we were standing outside that club in the cold on New Year’s Eve. But I can see the violet half-moons that tell me he hasn’t been sleeping either. The way his blue eyes have dulled into a lack of emotion.
I know it’s my fault.
“Thank you for earlier,” I start when Henry doesn’t immediately bolt in my presence.
He nods again, eyes closing for just a moment, but he doesn’t say anything.
“We ordered way too much food, so please eat!” Kristine’s voice rings out and the crowd disperses as people get in line.
Henry and I stay frozen in this spot.
“It was pretty generous of you to save me. I’d even go so far as to say friendly.”
His eyes turn to ice and I immediately know it took me a single sentence to cross his boundary.
“Stop,” he says, venom on his tongue. “It’s always about you. What about what I want? You don’t get to dictate what we are anymore. Friends, lovers, everything, nothing—it’s exhausting, Norah. I’m done.”
I open my mouth, but can’t think of anything useful to say.
“I wish things were different,” he continues. “Someday it won’t be so painful to be near you and know what we had, and how easily you gave up on us, but I’m not there yet. It isn’t that I don’t want to be your friend,” Henry says just loud enough for me to hear over the buzz of the room. “I can’t. It’s too hard. Please respect that.”
He looks down at me like he’s fighting for his life. As if it took everything within him to get that out. So what else can I do besides say “Okay,” and “I’m sorry,” and then stay as far away from him as possible for the rest of the party.
Chapter 29
When I arrive back at Frankie’s apartment, she takes one look at me and then forces Monsieur into my lap as a designated Emotional Support Cat.
How could everything come out so wrong, both on the phone and in person? How can I find the words to express what I’m actually feeling without torching any more of the relationships in my life?
From Frankie’s weird biscuit couch, with her cat resigned to lying on my stomach, I log into my insurance portal and search for therapists.
I always thought I was so self-aware. I can identify the problem, so what’s the point of talking to someone else? But that’s no longer enough.
