Page 14 of Back for Seconds

“Great.” I rolled my eyes. “I look forward to revelatory headlines.”

At the end of the block, she pulled me toward a new place—a bakery and café located in an old beach cottage. A simple white sign swung in the ocean wind, hung from the second-floor balcony: Brasserie Luna.

Inside, the air was a seductive blend of maple syrup and freshly brewed coffee. A waiter directed us to a table by the window, and we quickly put in what Mom and I ordered no matter where we had our weekend brunch. For AnneMarie, a western omelet with double ham, double green peppers. For me, pancakes topped with bananas and strawberries.

“Oh, and I won you this.” She set a snow globe down on the table between us. The ceramic base was painted in various shades of gold and green. Trapped in the center of the globe was a snow-covered replica of a Jersey Shore boardwalk. A Ferris wheel, a roller coaster, an old-timey candy shoppe, and gaslight streetlights. All teeny tiny. Around the boardwalk were evergreen pines draped in twinkle lights. Hanging in the sky above it all was a ruddy-cheeked cherub looking pretty pissed in a Santa hat.

I pointed at the angel. “Think he’s cold?”

She ignored me and simply lifted her brows expectantly. “Do you like it?”

“I love it.” I gave it a shake. Glitter rained down on the happy little shore village. “This will be my only decoration this year.” I meant for this to sound whimsical and charming, but judging the look that clouded my mother’s eyes, it had perhaps come across as just pathetic.

“Babydoll, you should really buy a tree.”

“Nope.” I gave my globe another rattle. “This is all I need.”

“What if I talk your brother Sal into doing all the hard work?” she urged on. “I’ll send him to the store to pick one out. I’ll have him set it up. You’ll just need to hang a few ornaments and call it a day!”

“No.” I shook my head. Then I shook my globe. “I don’t want one. Plus, he’s busy with all of his…uh, conquests. No tree. I don’t need it.”

“Junie.” She reached for my hand, then gripped my wrist. I stopped shaking. “Why? You’ve always loved Christmas. Your first word was Santa. Is this about Brian?”

Her words sent my stomach lurching, a sensation just like fear shooting ice through the center of my chest. “I…still love Christmas,” I managed.

It was true. Santa had been my first word. Santa had been my first crush.

For as long as I could remember, December had been my favorite month. I didn’t just like the usual parts of Christmas that appealed to children—no, I loved the deep cuts. Forget pizzelle and A Muppet Christmas Carol. I liked struffoli and every stop-motion Christmas special ever made. I liked finding frozen ocean foam, sipping mug after mug of Wawa’s special holiday coffee blend, and rewatching Moonstruck while I made a big pot of meatballs. I even loved midnight mass.

I’d also really liked meeting my ex on a frigid November night outside The Stone Pony, and then—thirteen months later—accepting his impromptu, ringless proposal in Rittenhouse Square on December twenty-third.

Quietly, I added: “It’s just not the same anymore.”

Thankfully, our waiter was back with our food, and we descended into our meal in silence, the sound of happier conversations and soft bossa nova music filling in all the blank spaces, picking up where I could no longer manage. I couldn’t force myself to chirp on about Christmas when my mind was still stuck in the bramble, snagging on Brian and his baby and how deeply I had failed at moving on.

At least my pancakes were perfect—golden brown, soft and buttery, topped with a perfect quarter-sized dollop of industrially produced whipped cream—and so delicate, my fork sliced a clean path right through them. Could JoeyDaVegan recreate these, with his cassava flour and almond milk? I hated that I was still thinking about him, that I couldn’t stop thinking about him. His hand on mine; the sweet way his smile pulled to one side, flashing his bright white teeth while his eyes crinkled with a plum-soft kindness. The shape and curve of his muscles under his sweater, the way they expanded every time he drew in a breath. His features—his long, sharp nose with its gentle hook and the deep square angle of his jaw—outlined in the twinkling white lights that lined Venus Avenue. The pain in his voice when he mentioned his ex—familiar, affirming. Maybe I wasn’t the only person on earth who felt like their insides had been rearranged with the blunt side of a hammer.

Mom cleared her throat and set down her fork. “June, I need to tell you something, sweetheart. I can’t keep it in any longer. You’re going to be upset—emotional.” She fidgeted with her napkin, patting it against her lips repeatedly.

I frowned at her. “Oh no, what happened?”

“Nothing, yet. But tomorrow…” She drew in a breath, squaring her shoulders. “I’m heading out of town tomorrow. On a trip. It’s all been very sudden. I booked it a week ago, on a whim. And before you get mad at me, please know…this was all your Aunt Diane’s idea.”

“You’re going away for Christmas?”

“And New Years.” Her eyebrows knit together in genuine anguish. “I’ll be gone until the ninth. I’m going to heal my heart, Junebug.”

“Until the ninth?” That was more than Christmas and New Years. That was every day I had planned to spend at her house, rotting on her couch while I ate Mallomars and attempted to beat my current streak for Most Days Gone Without Washing My Hair. I was going to rewatch all of Gilmore Girls and continue my research into how to summon a vengeful demon and/or the will to live. “But…” I sucked down a breath. She looked so sad. Oh, Mom. She was always worried about us more than herself.

And this sounded like a good thing. I could act like it was a good thing.

I fixed my face. “Are you going on some sort of retreat? Like, to South America? To an ashram?”

“No.” She turned her phone around to face me. I was immediately assaulted by images of bikini-clad, gray-haired babes frolicking on a Jamaican beach. Two men, also silver-haired, watched them from the deck of an enormous cruise ship, fedoras tilted jauntily on their aged heads, linen button-down shirts wide open. Dear god. “It’s a cruise for singles over sixty.”

“That”—I pointed my fork at her screen—“is a fuck boat.”

“A fuck boat?” She yanked the phone back, lips curling with disgust. “I don’t think that’s legal.”