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She laughs. “I hope it goes well too. But honestly? I just need it tohappen. To look at her. Now that I’m going to be a mom, it’s even harder to understand how she could have made that decision.”
“Maybe there’s no explanation.”
“Yeah.” Sydney sighs. “Part of me, just—I never had any closure. Holden remembers her, but I was only four when she left. And it’s not like we reminisced with our dad about the good old days. I don’t even remember what she looked like. If I passedher on the street, I probably wouldn’t recognize her. And she’s…dying, so this is my last chance. For anything.”
“I hope you get everything you need from it, Syd.”
“I feel bad, making Holden do it.”
I hear the question in her voice, wondering what he’s told me. This is just as uncomfortable as when I was trying to share details of my first time and avoid the weirdness of us discussing her brother. Two important, distinct relationships—my closest, oldest friend and my boyfriend—with a lot of overlap.
“He doesn’t do things he doesn’t want to do. You know that,” I say, attempting a little levity.
“Maybe that was true once,” she replies. “Not anymore.” Then sighs. “I’ve gotta get to class. I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”
“Okay. Bye, Syd.”
“Bye.”
She hangs up. I stand and soak in a little more Vitamin D, then head back inside the library.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
HOLDEN
Idrum my fingers impatiently on the scarred tabletop. Sydney glances over at me but says nothing. She’s been biting her bottom lip for the past fifteen minutes.
Part of me is worried our mom won’t show. It would be incredibly on brand for her.
The rest of me is scared shewillshow.
I had to look up my mother’s phone numberonline. I knew what town she’s living in—or I did two years ago—and pulled up a landline. Called and left a message after a generic voicemail asking her to meet me at Roxbury Diner today at one p.m.. Maybe it was the wrong number. Maybe she doesn’t listen to her messages. Maybe she got it but won’t show. Who the hell knows?
It's 1:05 now.
The waitress reappears, asking if we want to order anything again.
I glance at Sydney. She shakes her head.
“We’re still deciding,” I tell the waitress. “Thanks.”
She sighs, nods, then leaves.
The bell above the door tinkles. I glance over automatically, not really expecting it to be her.
But it is.
Sydney inhales sharply next to me. I’m not sure if it’s because she’s recognized her or because she’s reacting to her appearance.
Our mom looks worse than the last time I saw her. Paler. Skinnier. But her gaze is alert and aware as she glances around the diner, her eyes landing on me first and then sliding over to Sydney sitting beside me.
Her lips purse before she says something to the man accompanying her. It’s the same guy who was with her in the hospital.
He takes a seat on one of the stools along the long countertop.
Our mom approaches us alone.
At least she didn’t just turn around and leave. That would have been worse than her not showing at all, I think. For all her faults, she’s never been a coward. She spent two days packing up all her belongings and left in the middle of the afternoon. She didn’t desert us in the middle of the night with only her phone and wallet. It was a calculated choice, not a panicked reaction.
