Page 2 of Something like Desire

“Bring him along,” Andy says. “I’m confident that with the right balance of encouragement and amaretto sours, I can convince him to get up onstage and let his inner rock star out.”

I picture Jayden onstage, the top buttons of his shirt undone, belting out a song while Andy and Santiago form a mosh pit in front of the stage and I let out a loud laugh. There’s no way Jayden would ever perform karaoke, but the image is a good addition to the reel of funny things I picture when I’m trying not to cry about something in public places.

Andy hums his go-to karaoke song, “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’,” and I have to admit karaoke with him and Santiago might just be the uplifting evening I’ve been craving, but ditching Jayden on the one night I’m free this weekend isn’t something I’d feel good about. Andy spins around in his chair, dips his body to the side, and kicks his legs out. “Well, what do you say?”

I look over from my computer and shake my head. “Jayden and I are going to stay in and have a quiet night.”

Andy fakes a yawn. “Borrrring. How about Saturday?”

“Helping Gia with wedding stuff.” Ditching my sister wouldnotgo down well. That girl has a checklist detailing all the things that need to happen to make her wedding the day she’s dreamed of, andLexi being by my side, every step of the wayis number three.

“And areyougoing to enjoy your riveting weekend?” Andy asks, raising his perfectly groomed eyebrows at me.

“Sure, I will,” I say in an overly pleasant tone, even though I can only remember one experience in the last fifteen years where I did something that made me feel excited. During my gap year, I went on a trip across Europe with my best friend, Maren. We visited so many remote places that don’t show up in travel magazines. I still remember the buzz of adrenaline that charged through me during the entire trip.

“If you say so,” Andy says in a disbelieving tone and wheels himself back to his desk.

The next couple of hours are filled with three more phone consultations, answering twelve emails, and having a resolution meeting with two customer service reps dueling over a coveted office chair.

When work’s done, I text Mom.

Finished for the day. Should I come by now?

Her reply comes quickly.

No. Let’s meet at Chrissy’s instead.

My mother’s asking to meet me at a coffee shop when she makes constant digs about me wasting money on ten-dollar lattes...? First she avoids me for weeks and now she wants to meet at an expensive café? It doesn’t seem like my guess about her home glow-up is accurate.

Something’s definitely going on. Maybe it was just the egg salad sandwich I had for lunch, but I have a bad feeling about this.

TWO

The warm air smells like freshly cut grass and Marvin’s famous croissants—usually enough to have me floating down the street.

But Mom’s text has me thinking of a zillion different things she might tell me, like she and Dad are moving again, one of them is sick, they don’t think Gia should get married anymore, they lost their life savings at the casino and have to move into my one-bedroom apartment with me. The potential catastrophes are endless.

I shut the door of my Prius and head down Braedale, past the bridal shop where Gia picked her princess gown, and past Marvin’s Baked Goods, a.k.a. the yummiest bakery in Driftwood Cove. I’m too tense to truly admire the new geranium-and-pansy arrangements above the lampposts.

People stroll like they’ve got all the time in the world, kids race by on bikes, and everything screams charming small town. But my nerves are knotted, and dread has made itself comfortable right in the pit of my stomach.

I cautiously push open the pale green door and step into Chrissy’s café—a.k.a. the last place on earth Mom would ever normally want to go. But here she is now, smiling at me from across the room, patting a place next to her on the plush mocha-brown sofa.

Who is this woman and what did she do with my mother?

Whatever’s up with her, I don’t think it’s going to be good.

She looks good though. Shockingly, Andy might be right about the tummy tuck because she looks svelte—completely transformed since the last time I saw her, two months ago. And just to be clear, I tried, hard, to get her to spend time with me but she always had an excuse about why it wasn’t a good day.

Mom’s shoulder-length hair is dyed a beautiful shade of buttery blonde, and she’s got on a royal blue blazer, crisp white top, and a thick gold necklace, which makes me glad I didn’t end up going home to change into sweats after work after all. I’d look frumpy in comparison. Mom’s makeup has been carefully applied, unlike her usual quick swipe of mascara and dab of lip gloss.

Less than a year ago, Mom was dressing older than her sixty-one years—cardigans, sweaters with polka dots, long shapeless dresses.

This has a somewhat-late midlife crisis written all over it.

I order my velvet rose latte with extra foam and sit down next to her, very cautiously, in case there’s a hidden camera crew and I’m being pranked. I set my steaming mug down on one of the wooden coasters and brace myself for whatever’s about to happen.

Mom wraps her arms around me and kisses my head. I recognize the scent she’s wearing as Chanel Chance. No more vanilla body spray for her, apparently.