Page 74 of Hidden Desires

He hugs me again, then steers me upstairs, arm around my shoulder, warm and heavy.

That night, Jack falls asleep first, because that’s what he does—hits the mattress and is out in three minutes, like a man. I lie next to his huge form, wide awake, his arm draped over my waist like a weighted blanket, and watch the streetlights flicker against the ceiling. My mind spins endless scenarios: Nancy hanging up on me, Nancy sobbing, Nancy cursing me out. Or maybe just silence, and the terrible void that follows.

I try to script what I’ll say: “Hi Mom, it’s me, I’m not dead, sorry I ruined your reputation in town, sorry I blew up the family, sorry I—” It’s pointless. All I want is to hear her voice, just once, and have her say it’s not all lost.

I must drift off at some point, because the next thing I know it’s morning, and Jack is already in the kitchen, making eggs and reading the news on his phone. He’s in boxers and a soft t-shirt, bare-legged, hair still wet from the shower, and so handsome, as always. The sight makes me feel steadier, like the world hasn’t ended and maybe won’t.

I slide onto a stool at the island, phone in hand, heart hammering.

“Coffee?” he asks, pouring without waiting for my answer. I nod, wrap my hands around the mug, and stare at my phone until the screen goes black, then tap it awake again. And again.

Jack comes around the counter, sets a hand on my shoulder, gives it a little squeeze. “You got this, sweetheart.”

I nod, though I’m not sure I do. “I’ll do it now,” I say, mostly so I can’t take it back.

I stand, walk to the window, and dial. The ring is so long it feels endless. My mouth goes dry. Then—click—someone picks up.

“Hello?”

It’s my mom. Nancy’s voice is thinner, raspier, like she’s aged five years in as many weeks.

“Mom?” I say, and my own voice breaks. “It’s me. I was wondering if you’d like to get coffee. Just coffee. That’s all.”

There’s a silence so wide I can hear her breathing.

Finally, she says, “Okay. When?”

I look at Jack. He raises an eyebrow in support.

“Whenever you want,” I say, and it comes out so hopeful that it almost makes me cry.

“Today,” she says, then, “Ten-thirty. Calico Café.”

I nod, forgetting she can’t see me. “I’ll be there.”

Click. She hangs up.

I stand there, phone to my ear, breathing in and out. Jack comes up, rubs my back. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

I look at him, then at the clock, and realize I have forty minutes to get ready.

“Wish me luck?” I say, faking a smile.

He kisses my cheek, then pours more coffee. “You don’t need it, Eliza. But you’ve got it anyway.”

I take the mug, the phone, and a shaky sense of hope, and head upstairs to get dressed, wondering if I’m about to walk into a second ambush or the first step of forgiveness.

The Calico Café is one of those places that can’t decide if it wants to be a small-town diner or a third-wave coffee temple. The smell inside is equal parts burnt toast, cinnamon, and hipster ambition. I arrive fifteen minutes early, because I can’t handle the possibility of walking in and seeing my mother already there, watching me approach. I want to be the watcher, not the watched.

I scan the room, then pick a corner table without too many people nearby. God knows, given the subject of our discussion, that I don’t want anyone listening in. Plus, from here, I can see the door, the whole room, the barista with a man-bun and a lip ring, and the row of windows that look out over the frozen river. I’m in control of this situation.

I order a latte, extra hot, and nurse it while my heart does speed drills in my chest. I adjust and readjust the cup on its saucer, then rearrange the little sugar packets and napkins so they form a neat, defensible perimeter. I check my phone twice, though I know there’s nothing new. I text Jack: “I’m here. Will report back.” He replies instantly: “You’ve got this, sweetheart.”

At precisely 10:29, I see my mom’s car pull up. For a second, I don’t recognize the woman who gets out. Nancy Shaw is thinner than I remember, her cheeks hollowed a little, her posture less upright. She’s wearing yoga pants, a parka zipped to her chin, and instead of her usual perfect bob, her hair is yanked back in a ponytail that says “I’m in a hurry.” She scans the parking lot, then the street, before coming in.

She spots me instantly, and I see her take a deep breath before walking over. The performance starts immediately: her stride purposeful, her face arranged in that neutral, unreadable way that says, “I’m not here to cause a scene.”

“Hi, honey,” she says. Her voice is the same, but less force behind it. “You look good.”