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I squeezed her one more time then pulled back. “Besides, if you hadn’t gone to nursing school, you never would’ve met Dad, and I wouldn’t be here today.”
“Also true. You and Eric are my biggest accomplishments.” Mom reached up and brushed her fingers through my hair. “And I promise that I’ll lay off the ‘get married’ spiel. Especially now. Just know that I don’t have any expectations about what you should be doing. I just want you to be happy.”
“Thanks, Mom. That actually means a lot to me.” We weren’t a hundred percent healed, but it’d helped so much to know why she’d been so judgmental and distant the last few years. It was hard to picture my mom on stage with a guitar. She’d always been the no nonsense, do your homework, rule pusher. We’d always gone to Dad for the soft hugs and confidence moments. Or at least I did. Eric had always clicked more with Mom than I did.
“And I can’t tell you how happy I am that you’re back home and we can put that whole Hollywood mess behind us.”
I batted her hand away from my hair. “What? Why do you think I’m done with LA?”
“Well, aren’t you? You’ve been home for almost two weeks, and you haven’t said a single thing about going back. What else would I think?”
“Just because I came home to hide and lick my wounds doesn’t mean I’m back for forever. Once the media loses interest in me, I’m going back to my apartment and finding a new job. I might be done with Rome, but I’m not done with my dream of writing screenplays.”
Mom heaved a sigh and smiled sadly. She opened her mouth then closed it. Finally she spoke. “I realize you have to live your own life. I know it’s not easy to make it in LA. I just want you to understand why I worry so much. It’s not you, it’s me.”
I snorted. “Pretty sure I said something similar to Rome before I left him.”
“Well, I stand by what I said about him. He’s a fool and you can do so much better.”
Better than America’s Boyfriend? My heart lurched. I still missed him. And his stupid dog too. When would that part get easier?
My mom sighed and patted my leg. “I really hope it works out better for you than it did for me. And know that your father and I will always be here if you need us.”
“Thanks, Mom.” I reached over and hugged her tight. Huh, I guess it was actually possible for people to change. Who knew? “Love you.”
“Love you too, honey.”
* * *
A few days later I was on my parents’ couch, wrapped in my favorite blanket texting with Molly.
Molly: Haven’t seen a pap in over a week. Prolly safe to come back home.
Me: I don’t know. I still feel like they’ll pop out at me every time I leave the house.
Molly: You? Leave the house? I don’t believe you.
Me: I do. Someone has to grab the Amazon packages off the front step.
Molly: Oh no. What are you buying online? Please say it’s beauty supplies and not wine and chocolate.
Me: I’m in Napa. Why would I buy wine on Amazon? :-p
Before Molly could text back, another text came through.
Brynn Sampson: I feel weird asking this but I can’t not ask. Would you pass along my murder mystery screenplay to Roman Grier for me? I just think it’s totally the kinda thing he would love to do and branch out into a new genre, you know? Love you! And congrats on the engagement!
I should’ve known. I’d reached out to Brynn—and not Sabrina for obvious reasons—because I wanted, needed, someone from like pre-Roman Grier days back in my life. I wanted to feel normal again and not like an exhibit at the zoo. Brynn and I hadn’t talked about Rome or where I was living at the moment, just writing stuff. But apparently she’d had an ulterior motive the entire time.
And now I could count my real friends on one finger. Geez, that was sad.
I stared at the text feeling like ten kinds of loser when my phone rang in my hands and I jumped about a foot in the air.
Unknown number
Oh no. Not again.
I’d gotten a new phone and number the day I showed up on my parents’ front step. I couldn’t bear the thought of all those weirdos having my number. I was afraid they’d be able to track me through my phone’s GPS or something. It was best to start fresh. New phone. New number.
