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Walt has me in his arms as we head down the hall.
“You’re sick,” I reprimand him.
“Not that sick.”
“Could have fooled me with all that moaning earlier.” I try to get free. “Now set me down.”
“It’s late. Stop arguing.”
I stop wriggling but continue arguing nonetheless. “You’ll find I can be difficult any time of day.”
“Yes. I’m learning that.”
“Is this some type of macho thing? Carrying me?”
“I thought it was a nice gesture.”
At the door of my room, he hesitates, looks down the hall, then looks back at my room.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says with a shake of his head.
He steps inside and deposits me lightly on my bed. I stare up at him as he hovers over me, cast only in moonlight. His dark eyes seem to need to ask something, and I’m patient, silent. Waiting proves fruitless when he eventually sighs.
“Thanks for the soup,” he says, glancing down briefly at my lips before looking away.
“Thanks for the ride.”
He smiles and turns away.
I watch him leave my room and wish we were still back on that couch.
Nineteen
The next day, I’m in the library, delicately spreading varnish over one of my canvases, when I get a call. My mom and my sister are coming to town. It’s a last-minute thing. They’re already in the car, heading here from Connecticut.
“Saks is having their semi-annual sale” is the official reason my mom gives me as soon as they put me on speakerphone. There’s no mention of the fact that we haven’t seen each other in nearly a year.
“You’ll come shopping with us,” my mom tells me.
“Wish I could, but I have a lot of work I need to get done,” I argue, proving this (even to myself) by wedging the phone between my shoulder and ear so I can keep spreading varnish over the layers of pastel, charcoal, and paint.
“Is Lizzie still doing her art?” Charlotte asks my mom as a plainly heard aside.
“Yes. I’m still doing my art,” I respond, before trying and failing to keep from grinding my teeth together in annoyance.
“Well can’t you do that like…whenever?” Charlotte laughs. “It’s not like you have a boss.”
“I still have deadlines. In fact, I’m trying to put a series together for—”
“Mom, look! Marissa’s already there and she’s posting to her Instastory. She’s trying on the Gucci wedges I want. I literally told her about those and now she’s buying them.”
“I can’t look while I’m driving, Charlotte.”
“Yes, here. I’ll hold the phone out over the steering wheel.”
“Oh, those are cute.” A car honks in the background, and I wonder if my mom just narrowly missed getting into a car accident. “Don’t be surprised if they’re already sold out by the time we get there though.”
“I know.” Charlotte sounds hopeless. “We really should have been on the road an hour ago.”
“Elizabeth, honey,” my mom says, “you’ll have to meet us at Saks. We won’t have time to swing by and pick you up beforehand.”
I’ll grind my teeth to stumps by the time this phone call is over.
“Like I said, I really can’t do it today.”
“Stop being silly. I’d like to see you. Charlotte would like to see you.”
Charlotte doesn’t confirm this.
“Take a few hours off from whatever it is you’ve got going on and meet us at Saks,” my mom insists.
I don’t know why I can’t stick to my guns where they’re involved. A part of me wants to double down and curtly declare that I wish I could join, but I can’t.
Unfortunately, I can’t seem to make my mouth form those words. Instead, I shower and get ready, throwing on a pair of dark jeans and a white peasant blouse. I add my Doc Martens because I love the contrast between the feminine top and the chunky boot. As expected, my mom absolutely hates the combination.
“A delicate ballet flat would have done nicely” is the first thing out of her mouth when she sees me at Saks.
I accept her hug and ignore her greeting, realizing all of a sudden that there actually is a good reason for me to be here today.
My sister and my mom seem to have forgotten the predicament they’re in. Shoe boxes litter the floor around them. My sister is trying on a pair of Valentino heels instead of digging through the bargain bin.
“Are you sure it’s a good idea to be shopping the sale this year?” I ask my mom, careful to keep my voice down. A good deal of her circle of friends have likely flocked here to shop as well, and it’s not my intention to embarrass her.
“Honey, relax,” my mom says with a pat on my arm.
“Aren’t you going to come over and give me a hug?” Charlotte says, not bothering to stand up.
“I can’t really get to you,” I say, pointing to the mountain of boxes.
It’s a good excuse considering I don’t want to give her a hug. I’m still not completely over the fact that she lied about running away with her driver. Clearly, I’m the only one who thinks she deserves to experience some kind of consequence in her life. It’s obvious she and my mom are back on good terms as if nothing has even happened. They’ve always been buddy-buddy like that though, too much alike for their own good.
