We miss you!
The “monsters” are my two favorite kids in the whole world, and they’re making faces at the phone, which tells me they know their mom is texting “Auntie Kay.”
I shouldn’t respond.
I really shouldn’t.
KAYLA
Ha ha! Miss you all, too. Have so much fun! And put on some extra sunscreen for me. I’m getting a burn just looking at you!
MERYL
You *would* get a sunburn looking at a picture. But it won’t be as bad as Ibiza.
KAYLA
YOU SAID YOU’D NEVER TALK ABOUT IBIZA.
MERYL
Well, you said we’d be sisters, so maybe now we’re even.
Sorry, that was a dumb joke. I promised that you breaking up with Aldridge would change nothing, and it hasn’t. I love you and hope you’re happy out there in Mullet World.
KAYLA
Laugh it up, but I’m making it work. Thanks, Meryl. Tell the kids I love them!
When I put down my phone, the acid that was crashing around in my stomach makes an aggressive comeback.
I know I lied, but I can’t admit how hard it’s been. Because if I do, I may not be able to stop myself from giving in when she begs to fly out and bring me back home. And if I go back, I can’t promise not to open the door to a world I fought to be free from.
Because as unhappy as I was, as much as I felt I was playing a part, at least I knew the script. And people genuinely cared about me. People like Meryl.
If I had realized how much it would hurt not to have Meryl in my life?—
I cut the thought short.
And I give myself two minutes to breathe and massage the tension in my forehead.
Two very short minutes.
Then I look in the mirror, wipe away a fleck of mascara, and repeat that silly mantra ten times.
“Seize the day like your grandmother built it with her bare hands.”
I snort.
It’s just ridiculous enough to put a smile on my face as I get out of my car and walk into the Fellowship Hall.
The vinyl-covered folding tables are already sagging under the weight of slow cookers and those glass casserole dishes that come in nesting sets and last for generations.
I’ve plated my homemade deviled eggs using a gorgeous hand-painted ceramic dish from a boutique in SoHo (the London one, not Manhattan). A Michelin-starred chef friend walked me through the recipe last night, and they’re gorgeous. Beyond Pinterest-worthy. The yolks are whipped into creamy perfection and piped with star tips, dusted with smoked paprika and truffle salt, and topped with tiny microgreens that I now realize may have been a bit much but that look enough like parsley that I think I’ll get away with it.
And they taste good, too.
Not that I’ll be eating in front of anyone today.
