“He does. Hey, do you remember when I went to that overnight horse camp when I was fifteen?”
“Of course. It was a huge family upheaval.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’d been talking about horses for years, begging Mom to let you ride. Dad said he’d leave Mom if she didn’t let you go, but Mom was sure you were going to break something and ruin your chances of becoming a prima ballerina. She said she’d buy you as many horses as you wanted once you became prima ballerina.” Her voice is hard. “She was so freaking manipulative.”
Monster plops the sandy, spittle-covered frisbee at my feet, and we walk to the water. I rinse it and throw it into the waves, and Monster sprints and leaps for it.
“I swear Monster just did a pas de chat.”
He plops the frisbee in the water. I splash over to it and fling it into the waves again. “I didn’t know Dad told Mom that.”
Cat blows a long breath out. “Me and my big mouth. Sorry, Honeycake. I thought you might have put two and two togetherat some point between then and now. That’s the only reason Mom let you go.”
“But Dad left anyway.” By the time I got back from camp—a short three weeks—every single thing that was Dad’s had disappeared from the house. As if he had never existed. No photos, his office furniture gone and his office painted a soft lavender color.
“I don’t understand. Didheleave or did Mom kick him out because I broke my jaw?”
“He left. Because Mom was a hardass.” She pauses. “Why were you thinking of that summer?”
“Until I broke my jaw, that horse camp was the best three weeks of my very limited adolescent life.”
“Yeah, that’s not saying much. You never got to experience adolescence in its true sex, drugs, and rock and roll glory because you went to that militant ballet school and trained all day.”
“I liked my ballet school. I loved dancing, and I loved living with the other girls—instead of Mom. I’m glad I was sheltered, even if I was naïve.” I plop down on the wet, packed sand, deciding not to care about getting my butt wet. “My instructors saw potential in me. Not prima ballerina potential, but they saw me for what I could do and what I couldn’t do. They pushed me to do things I didn’t know I could do, and they also helped me see my limits… which helped me deal with Mom’s pressure.”
A door slams shut on the other end of the line. “Sorry. I had to kick the door closed with my foot. My hands are full. I brought iced matchas for Trina, Riva, and Grace.” She’s quiet for a moment. “Are you eating enough? I’m worried you don’t have enough money.”
I think about all the times she’d call me up when I was on tour with my ballet company, and she’d ask if she should transfer cash into my account. Or send me a check. Years ago,before Zelle and Venmo. Or later, when Cain was sending his first manuscript out to agents, and I was pregnant then at home with Trudi, she’d send cards with checks or cash in them. I had stopped dancing, thinking it was just a temporary break until Trudi was old enough. But I loved being at home with Trudi so much that when Cain’s first book sold and did so well, I never went back to dancing. It's not a choice I regret now, since I had so few years with Trudi.
“Honey?” Cat says. “Are you there still, or am I just talking to your dog?”
“I’m here.”
“Are you able to look at anything on social media?”
“I only have this flip phone and no computer. I’m doing what they suggested and staying away from looking at anything. Why? Did anything show up about the car accident?”
“No. Trey’s PR gal—what’s her name—must have squelched everything.”
“Deb Cleary.”
“Does she do all his social media?”
“Yes.”
“She’s been posting pictures of you and Trey. Together. He’s back on set, and it looks like you’re there with him.” She pauses. “You’re not, are you?”
“No!”
She exhales, long and low. “I didn’t really think you were, but…”
“I get it. I’ve done some stupid things in the last couple years.”
“You’re no more stupid than anyone else.”
“Thanks so much.”
