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“I can’t sleep, yeah. Mostly because I’ve been tying myself in knots trying to finish a puzzle I now know I didn’t have all the pieces to.”
“Better late than never.” Granny blinks. “Go to him, sugar. Don’t waste another minute.”
thirty
Lu
Burning Bridges
I’m throwing shit in a bag when my doorbell rings.
I ignore it, scurrying into my bathroom to pack my toiletries. But then it rings again. I hear a knock. My phone dings, and I see a text from Mom saying she’s outside and she forgot her key.
I roll my eyes. Dealing with Mom is the last thing I feel like doing right now. I’m about to make a mad dash back to Bald Head in an attempt to catch the six-thirty ferry, and I am in no mood for her judgement on my decision to be with Riley.
Really, truly be with him. Just the thought gives me butterflies. I have no idea what I’ll do about my job. I don’t know what our living arrangements will be.
But I do know he loves me for me. He worships the person I am when nobody’s looking. The self I’ve hidden from view while I showed the world the polished person I felt pressured to be in an attempt to make myself lovable, and wanted, and accepted.
Lo and behold, trying so hard to be someone I’m not got me nowhere.
Nowhere I want to be, anyway.
Being with Riley probably means I’ll have to start over. I’ll have to build a whole new life from the ground up on the ashes of my old one.
A life that looked a lot like Mom’s. Granny’s too.
They’ve never known anything different. Neither do I. Pa would clearly be horrified I traded Patrick for Riley. The Gibbes Group for Stede’s.
The thought makes me smile.
I’m sure Granny called Mom the second I left the assisted living facility a little less than an hour ago. Granny and I didn’t exactly part on great terms, so I bet Mom is going to lecture me about that too.
But I can’t ignore her. I can deflect, I guess? Better yet, I can be honest. The end result might not be pretty, but I’m done dancing around her feelings.
I am who I am. And that person definitely isn’t Pa’s sweet little girl anymore.
I dash downstairs to open the door, only realizing I’m still holding the toiletries bag I was packing when Mom’s eyes dart to my hand.
“I’m glad I caught you. Can we talk for a minute?”
My stomach does a backflip.
Stick to your guns.
I open the door wider. “Sure. Of course. Come in.”
Resisting the urge to apologize for the shitshow that is my house, I lead her back to the kitchen.
“Want something to drink?” I set the toiletries bag on the counter and open the fridge. “I have sparkling water, Diet Coke . . .”
Leaning a hip against the island, Mom peers over my shoulder. “Is that some Chardonnay I see? I’m joking, but I just got off the phone with your grandmother. What she told me—”
“Made you want to take a bottle to your face?” I scoff. “Same here. Did you know? About Pa forcing Riley to dump me out of some classist, sexist notion that he wasn’t good enough for me?”
Mom shakes her head. “I did not, I swear. What your grandfather did was wrong, and if I had known about it—"
“Would you have intervened?” I close the fridge. “Or would you have done what Granny did and turned a blind eye to it?”
“Louise!” She looks like she’s about to cry.
“I’m sorry. Emotions are just . . . running high right now. That was unfair to accuse you.”
Mom swallows. “You know, I’ll never forgive myself for not knowing you were in love with Riley that summer. I should’ve been there for you. Should’ve been talking to you about all that stuff. But I didn’t, which meant I didn’t know how heartbroken you were when it ended, and I’m sorry about that. I can’t imagine how alone you must’ve felt.”
“Low point, definitely.” My turn to swallow. “I didn’t want to stress anyone out or get Riley into trouble, so I never said anything.”
“Oh, how awful.”
“It was.”
Mom wipes her eyes. “I feel like . . . like I don’t know a whole side of you. Between the cookbook and the apparently torrid romance you had with Riley . . .”
My eyes are hot with tears, but I still manage to laugh. “You’ve been hanging out with Mrs. Underwood a lot, haven’t you?”
“She’s a riot, isn’t she? Her books are”—Mom fans herself—“very good.”
I laugh some more. So does Mom. For a second the tension between us evaporates.
“I guess I was worried you wouldn’t accept that side of me. The creative, impractical side whose dreams were not at all safe or stable. They definitely aren’t socially acceptable.” I sniffle. “I thought you wouldn’t understand it, so I hid it. I just wanted you to be proud of me, and I felt like my dreams might embarrass or disappoint you.”
