I can see where she’s going with this and can’t help rolling my eyes. “Alright, I get it. We have to be willing to get hurt in order to get to the good stuff. Did you read that in one of your cheesy romance novels?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t like them. I saw the stash you’re hiding in your room. And that wasn’t what I was going to say.” She sets her coffee down, moves closer, and takes my hands. Her fingers are cold. “You loved that dress. It was positively, perfectly you.”
I did love that dress. The fabric was the softest I’d ever felt. It had puffed sleeves that made me feel like Anne of Green Gables, and I’d never owned anythingthat fit so well. I felt like a princess when I wore it on picture day in seventh grade. Until I got to school. “Everyone called me Victorian Girl for the rest of the year.”
“Not Natalie.”
I haven’t thought about Natalie in years. She was my best friend throughout high school. We lost touch after the divorce, when Mom and I moved. But she was a good friend back then.
“The day you wore that dress was the day you two became friends.” Mom stretches her legs out onto my lap. “Risk and reward are bedfellows.”
“You should write slogans for investment firms,” I tease.
Mom takes one of my hands and starts massaging my palm like she used to when I was little. She gives me a cheeky grin. “Count your blessings and your investments.”
“Investments that make cents,” I say.
“Put your eggs in our basket,” Mom replies.
I snort and almost spit my coffee at her. We both devolve into fits of giggles. Which ends in more coughing for Mom. I get up and get her a glass of water.
“We should have been 1950s ad men,” Mom says.
“They wouldn’t have let us.” The simple sentence sparks an idea that quickly spreads like wildfire. A 1950s ad man who isn’t very good at his job seeks the help of his female neighbor, who is always cracking jokes and throwing funny one-liners at him. The two strike up a deal that quickly develops into a romance.I hadn’t planned on writing another romance novel, but the idea takes shape so fully in my mind that I know it’ll happen, like a premonition, like a promise.
“I’m gonna go shower.” I stand up and kiss Mom on the cheek, eager to go jot down this idea.
“Hey, Hazel,” she calls as I reach the edge of the couch.
I turn around, waiting for whatever she wants to say.
“He who cannot howl…” she says, quoting the poet Charles Simic.
She doesn’t have to finish it. I know how the line ends. She used to say it all the time when I was growing up.He who cannot howl will not find his pack.
Chapter Thirty
My thesis novel is due today. And it’s actually finished. Or at least as finished as it’s going to be. With one click of a button, I’ll send it to my MFA committee. In one week, I’ll stand before them as they ask questions and pick it apart. I’ll defend my choices and make a case for my book. Then, all this will be over.
I just have to press the button and send it.
I wish I could read it through one more time. I’m not happy with how it is, but there isn’t time to change it. It’s done. It needs to be done. But I can’t seem to bring myself to push the send button.
I pick up my phone and text Kiara to see if she’s turned in her book yet. She doesn’t respond. She’s probably already off relaxing somewhere. I text Cosmos. Taking Mom’s words to heart after the disastrous family dinner. I’ve decided to howl and see if I find my pack. He doesn’t respond either.
I’m a little surprised, because I know he’s off today. We made plans to celebrate tonight. Although, if I never work up the courage to hit send, we won’t have anything to celebrate.
I don’t know why I’m stalling. Dr. Paatel has already read the full manuscript. I’ve shared it in workshops with my peers. But this is different. I don’t know the other professors on my committee well. They’re all published authors, some with notable awards and merits in the literary world. And the critique I’ve gotten in workshops lately hasn’t exactly been glowing.
I glance at the clock. There’s plenty of time. I’ll send it later.
Mom is coughing in the other room, so I make her some tea and curl up next to her to watchThe Importance of Being Earnest. She complains about her back feeling stiff from all this lying around, so I give her a massage while we watch. We say most of the lines along with the actors. When it’s over, we start10 Things I Hate About You. I’m so distracted I don’t notice the room growing dark until there’s a knock at the door.
It’s already seven. Shit. It must be Cosmos.
“Can you let him in?” I ask Mom, scrambling out from under the blanket we were cuddling under. “I’ll just be a minute.”
I dash into my room, throw on a dress, pull my hair up into a bun, and look in the mirror. I should have put more effort into getting ready. But I can’t do anything about it now.
