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It’s times like today that Mom mystifies me. “How can you be so confident? That resort is going to be a monster.”
“You know how in horror movies monsters are defeated by a final girl?”
“Yeah.”
“Our B&B is going to be a final girl.”
I chuckle. “Is that right?”
“We’re scrappy, inventive. Hell, your dad almost never drinks. Isn’t that in the rules for final girls?”
“Where does all this confidence come from and can I bottle some to take with me?”
She giggles. “Nervous about your first day?”
“Only a lot.”
Mom sits on the bed and pats it for me to sit next to her, so I do. “I am confident because in all the decades this place has been open, doing what comes naturally to us is what’s seen us through. We’ve had lean times and busy times, and no matter what, as long as we stay true to ourselves, we come out ahead. It’ll be a challenge. And your dad and I will face it together.”
My heart is lead in my chest. Weighty and black and unmoving. At a time like this, uncertain and potentially devastating, she knows she has Dad to walk through this with her, and her faith in their future is unshakable. And I am so jealous of her. It’s not her fault that I am dying on the inside.
“I’m glad you two have each other, Mom.”
“It’ll get better, Lily.”
“What?”
She smiles. “It’ll get better. I know it’s hard now. But you’ll get back on your feet and find someone new and—
“Nope. We are not doing that. Not again.”
“Fine.” She mimics buttoning her lip. “But it’s true.”
“Mom. I told you—he’s over me.”
But she elbows me. “As if you’re that easy to get over.”
I huff a laugh. “He hasn’t even texted me since that disaster dinner I told you about.”
“He’s probably too embarrassed for ordering consommé in front of a chef, which, to be fair, you did spend a good portion of the night mocking him for after you came home.”
“That’s only because I didn’t want to focus on the rest of the conversation.”
“And that was why I let you get away with it for so long. Since you’re obviously done with that, do you want to talk about it?”
I shake my head. “It’s too much to think about. I just need to move forward.”
“Sure. But did you ask yourself why he ordered that soup?”
“Because his palate never evolved, even though he dated a chef?”
“Why does anyone ever order consommé? It’s not apalatething. It’s afeeling badthing. Which means Cormac—
“Mom,” I cut her off. “Please. I can’t spend another minute on this. It’s time to move on. My regrets don’t change that and there is no way to fix things. I’ve been beating myself up about how I handled things, and if I have to hear his name one more time, I’ll scream.”
“Cormac MacMillan,” Dad says too loudly from down the hall. “Fancy seeing you here.”
Mom and I exchange a look before dashing to my open doorway to listen. From there, we can see Dad, but not Cormac, at the front door.
