Great Big Beautiful Life(72)

Is she picking up on my crush, or is it something else? I’ve brought lots of friends here over the years, but never a boyfriend or love interest of any kind.

In fact, imagining Theo here in my childhood home makes me feel like I’m three seconds from breaking into hives.

I’d always been too afraid she’d disapprove. If she knew about my dynamic with Theo, I’m sure she would. And that would bother me in a way that her disapproval of Hayden, I’m fairly sure, wouldn’t.

I’m still trying to figure out why when she says, “I read his book.”

I feel, instantly, like I might burst with pride. But I’d be lying if I didn’t say there was a fair bit of jealousy mixed in there. “It’s amazing, isn’t it?”

“I liked it very much.” That’s high praise coming from her. “You want the hat?” she asks, pulling the drawstring loose under her chin. “You’re going to get fried out here.”

“I’m wearing sunscreen,” I promise her, but she ignores me and pops the wide brim over my face.

After another minute or two of silence, she says, “He showed me that story you wrote. About the child star. Bella whatever?”

I sit back on my heels, absorbing the shock. “Oh.”

Still digging, still focused earthward, she says, “Your writing’s come a long way.”

I know—in my heart of hearts—she means this as a compliment. It still feels couched in an insult. “Thanks,” I say.

“You’ve always been talented,” she goes on, the pressure easing from me, only to push down again when she adds, “You could be doing anything.”

I don’t want to fight with her—that’s the last thing Dad would want—but I suddenly feel too thorny and raw to accept any subtle digs about my career without snapping.

It’s not just about me, I remind myself. My mom’s got her own stuff she’s dealing with. I take the hat back off and hand it to her, determined to maintain a breezy smile. “I’m going to see if the shower’s free yet,” I say.

She nods once, without meeting my eyes. I stand and go inside.



* * *



? ? ?

After lunch, we pack the car and say our goodbyes. “Feel free to come back anytime,” Mom says, to both of us, and I know she means it.

In lieu of hugs, she gives us a stack of leftovers in Tupperware, and walks us partway to the car, lingering at the point where the walkway spills into driveway.

“Safe travels,” she calls from there, like she can’t come any farther, and waves over her head.

“Thanks,” we call back in unison as we climb inside. “Love you,” I add through the rolled-down window.

“You too,” she says, and then we’re pulling away.

It’s strange, how no place on earth feels like home to me like this house shrinking in the distance, and yet, every time I’m there, I can’t help but feel it’s too tight around me, like a sweater that shrunk, or the house in Alice in Wonderland that Alice ends up wearing like a dress after she eats the magic cake.

“You okay?” Hayden asks from the passenger seat as we reach the intersection of the driveway and the road.

For once, I’m not in the mood to talk. “I’m good,” I say, pulling onto the road.

He nods, but after a few seconds, clears his throat and says, “You can talk about it, Alice.”

“I’m good,” I repeat.

In my peripheral, he shakes his head. “You’re not good. You’re upset.”

“What am I upset about?” I say.

He gives a frustrated laugh but doesn’t answer right away.

“What?” I press.

“Your mom,” he says. “You’re angry with her.”

My face warms. “Why are you acting like you’re mad at me now?”

“I’m not trying to—I just don’t understand why you won’t say something.”

“About what?” I ask, my own irritation mounting to match his.

“About how she just made you feel.” He throws his hands up like it should be obvious. “About how she doesn’t ask you about your job or your life, and when it comes up, she can’t wait to move on. About how it hurts you that she doesn’t read your stuff, and how when you reach for her, she literally pulls away. And instead of telling her you’re angry with her, you’re just bottling it up and pretending it’s fine. Even with me. Even when I can see it’s not fine.”

“Stop,” I murmur.

“I just don’t understand why you won’t admit you’re—”

“Stop,” I say, louder than I mean to, but not steady. Shaky, trembling, overwhelmed. “I’m sorry you think it’s some moral failing that I choose to focus on the good things in life, but not everyone sees things like you. Not everyone wants to just—just go through life like a steamroller.”

“This isn’t about me,” he says quietly.

“It is about you.” My grip tightens on the steering wheel. My eyes burn. “I’m sorry you felt like you had to be the perfect, happy little mayor’s son, who had to hide all of his feelings—”

“That’s not what this is,” he snaps back.