Through the window, I watch her moving between the racks, adjusting a display near the fitting rooms. She's in one of her own dresses — a deep plum wrap, and her reading glasses are perched on the end of her nose. She built this place from nothing.
Every dress on those racks, every customer who walks through that door, every dollar in that register is hers. She didn't need a man or a family name or anyone's permission. She just needed someone to believe in her. I was happy to be that someone.
I get out of the car and push through the door.
Mom takes one look at my face and opens her arms. I walk right into them.
She holds me tight against her chest, and I press my face into her shoulder and breathe her in. In my mother's arms, I don't have to be strong. I can just be her daughter.
The weight I've been carrying all week shifts just enough for me to breathe properly for the first time in days.
“Sit down,” she finally says, leading me to the settee.
I take a deep breath and update her on what’s been happening with Logan and me. The dinner, Logan standing up for me, Cat's silence, George's silence, the losing streak, and then asking Logan for space.
Mom listens without interrupting. When I finish, she's quiet for a long time.“You're doing my thing,” she says.
“What thing?”
“The thing I do. The thing I've been doing your whole life. When it hurts, you leave. When a man gets too close, you find a reason to push him away. I taught you that.” She takes my hand. “I taught you that because I thought I was protecting you. But I was wrong, Jasmine.”
“Oh, Mom, it’s not that.”
“Let me finish. I've been thinking about this since you told me about Logan. I've been watching you these past weeks. You've been happier than I've seen you in years. You laugh more, and you even stand differently. You’ve been glowing.”
She squeezes my hand. “I don't trust that family, but I trust you. And I trust what I see when you talk about Logan. Don't throw this away because of what I taught you. My mistakes don't have to be yours.”
I lean into my mother, and she wraps her arms around me and holds me the way she's held me my whole life — fiercely, completely, with every ounce of strength in her body.
“Go get your man,” she says.
“I don't know if he'll still want me.”
“Baby, that man waited ten years for you. He'll wait ten more if he has to. But don't make him.” She pulls back and holds my face in her hands. “Call him. Fix it.”
I hug her again. “I love you, Mom.”
“I love you too. Now go. I've got a shop to run.”
I walk to my car and fish out my phone from my purse.
I think about the words I want to say to Logan, and just as I’m about to hit call, it dawns on me that this is not a conversation to be had over the phone.
I start the car and drive back to the city.
Forty-five minutes later, I pull up outside his apartment. I walk to the building entrance and buzz his apartment.
His voice comes through the intercom. “Hello?”
“It's me.”
“Jasmine,” Logan says, breathless. “Come on up.”
The door clicks open.
I take the elevator up. When it comes to a stop, the doors slide open, and I step out. Logan’s door is open, and he’s standing in the doorway in sweats and a wrinkled t-shirt.
He looks rough. His eyes are tired and red, and he looks like a man who hasn't slept since I told him to leave my apartment.
