“Mom,” Ezra said sharply, but he was too late; at the sound of Renata’s voice, the tears I’d been trying to hold back dripped down my face. I watched the shimmering hem of her dress enter my field of vision as I tried to wipe them away with the heel of my hand.
“What’s going on?” Renata asked accusatorily. Even without lifting my head, I could imagine that she was glaring at her son. He sighed.
“Don’t look at me like that. This is bigger than me, for once,” he said. “Her mom’s in the hospital.”
A hand lifted my chin, and I found myself suddenly at eye level with a frowning Renata. She didn’t say a word, just surveyed my face for what felt like one long minute, then snatched Ezra’s pocket square out and, taking care to avoid my carefully applied eye shadow, dabbed away my tears.
“Which one?” Renata asked me, all business.
“Featherstone,” I managed, as the pieces of information began to connect in my mind. I knew Featherstone. I’d rotated there as a medical student. It was a nice hospital in the southwest suburbs, and far from the shabby one-bedroom apartment in Joliet where I’d grown up.
“What do you want to do?” Renata asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. I’d spent so much time in therapy trying to elucidate what exactly I wanted from my mother and accepting that I might never get it. It had been thirteen years since I’d last seen her, and in that time she had only attempted to make contact twice. When she called me two weeks ago, had it been to tell me that she was unwell?I need help, she’d said, and I’d assumed that she needed rent money or bail or something else you ask only of family and never pay back and had been furious.You were never my safety net, I wanted to respond.Why should I be yours?
But if she was dying? Would I feel differently then?
Renata dropped my chin, and suddenly I was reminded of the day that I moved out of her Gold Coast penthouse. She’d helped me with my apartment search, curling her lips at every walk-up within my budget and trying, unsuccessfully, to convince me to let her help fund something more suitable. When I informed her that I’d signed a lease and would be out of her hair within the month, she’d feigned indifference. Congratulated me (“That’s lovely, Josephine, just make sure they don’t have a pest problem, mice are just awful to get rid of.”) and went back to discussing the week’s meal plans with her chef. But as Ezra and I were packing my last box into her driver’s car, she followed us to the first floor with tears in her eyes.
“I hope you don’t feel like we pushed you out,” she’d said. “Youcan stay for as long as you need to, you know.” And when I convinced her that moving was my choice, she’d insisted, “If you ever need to come back, for whatever reason, just say the word. This room will always be yours.”
True to her word, Renata had left my bedroom untouched. The only thing I’d ever found in it that was out of place was Mal.
My mother didn’t seem to notice when I moved out. I did so gradually, splitting rent in a three-bedroom house with two of my coworkers at the sandwich shop where I worked, and when a month passed and she still hadn’t bothered to call to ask after me, I filed for emancipation. Up until the day I stood face-to-face with the judge, I expected her to show up. Protest, even just a little bit. She didn’t. She never had.
And yet.
“Don’t live your life with regrets,” Renata said now. “If you don’t go, you might ask yourself what if for the rest of your life.” She reached into her clutch for her phone, sent off a message. “Harold will drive you.”
I blinked away tears. Renata was right. If I didn’t go and see for myself what had become of my mother, it would haunt me forever.
“Thank you,” I said. “Really.”
“Anytime,” Renata said. She gave me a cool smile and a kiss on the cheek. “Now go.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Mal
[Video Description]A man sits behind a table at a bookstore with mic in hand. Off-screen, a voice asks him whether he is single. He looks uncomfortable but flattered and is about to answer when a woman in a short white dress sweeps in front of him and takes the mic from his hands. She gives him a bouquet of flowers.
[Caption]Sorry, folks. Our favorite irl book boyfriend is off the market. @malcolmjwaters, thank you for writing my favorite read of the year. RIP to your DMs.
[Comments]
21stcenturygworl7:ugh stop he can still be my boyfriend in my head
theheartbreakprince:omg look at his face when he takes the flowers!!! Does anyone know who the girl is?
Reemareads:It’s @drjojobee! I really like her account actually, she seems really cool
Lanaharman:well I thought she was very inappropriate. There were better ways to handle that question than interrupt the event like she did.
Reemareads:@lanaharman lol he isn’t going to choose you sis
The coffee shop where Mal had settled was the perfect place to get work done. It was featured in exactly zero “Best Places to Work in Chicago” lists, meaning he could actually find a table with an outlet, and had a menu that stretched beyond overpriced espresso, including sandwiches he could eat for lunch and pastries he could nibble on when he craved something sweet. He arrived early, right at opening, and put his phone on Do Not Disturb, lest he get distracted by the group chat.
Despite ideal conditions, however, Mal had written approximately three sentences of his proposal in as many hours. Instead, he’d spent his time refreshing his feed, and specifically, rewatching videos from his Em-Dash event. He’d been tagged in five so far, all capturing the same scene from slightly different angles, each one revealing different details: the shift of his own expression from awe to adoration when Jo swept in front of him, the fierce, fiery look in her eyes when she faced off the crowd, how it softened when she turned to give him his flowers. It was one thing to remember the moment, but quite another to see it happen from an outsider’s perspective. No wonder Kelechi had teased him so mercilessly.Don’t go making Harvey a cousin tonight,she’d texted him after she’d made it home from the event.
