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“That him?” Grandma asks.
“No. Emma.”
“You’re smiling.”
“She apologized. She forgives me for lying to her.”
“Good. Now let me see the hottie.”
My laugh hurts. These pictures are salt in the wound. We look so happy. So right together.
I pick one of us at Inked Hearts. I’m sitting on the stool behind the counter, and he has his arms around me, and we’re both smiling like we’re happy enough to die.
I hand my cell to grandma.
“Mmm. Yes. I can see why you look so miserable.” She taps the screen. “Anything good in here?” She raises her brows twice.
“Oh my God, Grandma! No. If there was, do you think I’d show you?”
“You’d deprive a dying woman of a juicy pic?”
“If it was meant for my eyes only, yes.”
“You’re not convincing me to stop looking.”
I laugh as I steal my cell back. “You’re sick. You know that?”
“Of course.” She smiles. “How is school?”
“Good. Hard. But good.”
“And work?”
“It’s fine. I… um… I might extend my trip and—”
“Don’t miss school for me.”
“Grandma. You’re… I’m staying here as long as I need to be here. You won’t talk me out of it.”
She looks up at me with a sad smile. “You really are a strong young woman.”
I wipe my tears. “I try. But I don’t feel that way. Not usually.”
“If your boss gives you shit, tell me. I’ll call him. Cough a lot. Guilt him.”
I shake my head. “No. I can find a place with better tips, so I can drop to two days a week.”
“You should, Kay-bear. And play up the flirting. You’ll never go broke appealing to a wealthy man’s ego.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“You won’t. If things were different, you’d lecture me about integrity.”
“They aren’t different.” I press my lips together. “You were a single mom. I get it.”
She nods. “You’re such a good kid. And so strong, going through everything on your own. But it doesn’t have to be like that, Kay-bear. Don’t make the same mistakes I did. Let people in. Let them see when you hurt. Even if it means risking your heart.”
“I’m trying.”
“Your mom told me about your depression.”
“What?” How does mom know?
“You’re on SSRIs. Insurance, they send a summary of benefits. Billing codes. All that shit. She wanted me to know, so I could look for signs that you might be thinking about hurting yourself.”
“Oh.”
“Let her think it was our secret.”
I nod. If things were different, I’d argue. But they’re not. “Okay.”
“Your mom probably never told you, but she had terrible postpartum depression. She couldn’t get out of bed. And she felt so guilty, thinking there must be something wrong with her. She had a new baby. She was supposed to be happy.”
“Oh.”
“I guess you can blame my genetics. The same thing happened to me.” Grandma squeezes my hand. “It’s the human condition, Kay. We’re all a little bit broken. Don’t let that stop you from going after what you want.”
I nod.
“Promise.”
“I promise.”
“You mean that?”
I nod. I really do.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Brendon
After hours of driving mindlessly, I end up where I’m supposed to be. The cemetery in Culver City. It’s the perfect place for my parents to rest forever.
The freeway is on one side. The mall is on another. A pocket of expensive houses is on the third.
The shiny billboards tacked to the mall cast a soft glow over the lush green grass. It’s fucked how green this grass is—our entire state is out of water—but it would be more fucked if it was as dead as the people buried here.
I clutch the bouquet of roses. Mom’s favorite. A cliché, yeah, but it’s hard to do anything but love roses. They spread open, invite your touch, then reward you with a prick to the fingertip.
They’re a perfect fucking metaphor. Beautiful. Guarded. Dangerous.
I’ve lost track of how many rose tattoos I’ve done. Hell, of how many I’ve done this month. Everyone wants that strong, barbed feminine beauty on their skin.
It suits Mom.
Strong. Beautiful. Viscous.
My canvas shoes soak up every drop of dew on the grass. It’s a cool night. It should be dark, but those stupid fucking billboards are as bright as a dozen full moons.
My feet remember the path. I’m not sure how. It’s been an eternity since I’ve been here. The funeral. A few times when Em wanted to go the first year. Then never.
I’ve certainly never come here alone.
There. Almost all the way at the back, halfway down the row. Josephine Kane. Elliot Kane.
My memories of Mom are sharper than my memories of Dad. But then she was so much sharper than Dad. She was always the picture of the perfect trophy wife. Educated. Pretty. Dark hair cut in a chic straight line. The latest designer clothes. A schedule filled with proper hobbies and volunteering.
When I was a kid, she spent a lot of time with me. She’d read to me. Take me to the park. Bring me on all her lunches and community meetings. Then she had Emma, and it was the three of us together. Dad was always busy. Working. But Mom poured time into us.
