The Starfish Sisters: A Novel(71)

“Try looking up good things instead.”

“Like what?”

“Varieties of cats? What kind of flowers to grow?” I raise a finger. “How about, ‘What are the best ten things about living in London?’”

“That’s a good idea, actually.” She pops another Tater Tot in her mouth, glugs the rest of the milk. “Can I be excused?”

“Sure.”

Ben texts me in the middle of the night. You awake?

Am I ever asleep?

Want some company?

This has been our pattern for quite some time, months. We text back and forth, and then he comes over for tea and company. We play poker or rummy or some other card game, and then he goes home and we go to sleep. Now, an anticipatory shiver runs through me. Now, things are different.

I think of Jasmine asleep in the other room. Jasmine is sleeping.

We can be quiet.

It’s not that. It feels weird.

Ah. We don’t have to do anything. Just hang out.

I’m not sure I can now, though. I’ll want my hands on him. I’ll want to bring him to my bedroom and have sex. The craving for it scares me a little. It’s not particularly controlled and I like being in control.

I think it’s better if we just text this time.

The dots appear. Disappear. Appear. Disappear. Finally: Okay. I’ll see you in the morning, then.

We can text if you want

That’s okay. I’ll just read. Xox

A hollow ache settles right below my breastbone. Maybe I should tell him to come over anyway. We had such a great time the other night, and I think I really like him, and I know he really likes me.

But I’m worried about what Jasmine will think, if it’s really okay to have a man over to sleep with me. A thousand things like that. And also my own terrors. But this is how to chase somebody away, isn’t it?

How do I let myself take a risk?

I write a text. Sorry, I’m feeling a little awkward about Jasmine being here.

Erase it.

Try again. Having boundary worries about Jasmine. You ok with that?

Erase it.

It’s not you or us or anything. I’m just feeling weird about Jasmine.

Erase it.

Leave it alone, I think. Just leave it all alone. Except, as I fall asleep, I think about how he felt around me, how it felt to be held and touched and kissed. How we talked into the early-morning hours.

Why did I tell him not to come over? I fling back the covers and pick up my phone. Four a.m. What if he hasn’t turned off his notifications?

Still. I don’t want him to get the wrong idea. I open our text string and type: Sorry. I’m probably worrying too much what Jasmine will think. See you tomorrow?

There’s no reply. But I can at least get back to sleep for a little while.



In the morning, Jasmine and I walk over to the studio. It’s cold and overcast, not a great day for being outside, but great for artwork. She needs to stay off the iPad. Her obsession with tsunamis and bombs and natural disasters is simply a focus point.

My creative brain is itchy, and I set aside the wallpaper painting and pull out some gessoed boards, smaller, twelve by twelve. I let my hand hover over the rolling container of acrylics, and feel turquoise and yellow calling me. I squirt some of each on the board and tilt my head. What do I want? A triangle. A square.

Jasmine is worried about change. Stephanie is making a good move for her life. It’s a great opportunity, and it’s good for Jasmine to see her mother choosing big steps, being brave. London will be an amazing adventure, even if it’s challenging at times. I want Jasmine to be able to enjoy it—and maybe even anticipate it. So often I’ve taken the safe path. I want more for Jasmine.

While I was sleepless last night, I tried to think of ways to help her, and I came up with a couple of projects we can do together.

In a vase on the main table, the dahlias Ben brought last week are starting to fade, dropping petals in pink and peach and white, and it gives me a little pang. He hasn’t texted me today. Have I messed things up?

But if a simple no to an invitation messed it up, what kind of connection would it be? I sweep the petals into the trash, irritated with myself. I’ve always been terrible at relationships, loving too much, loving the wrong people. It’s like I’m tone deaf in that arena, but I really don’t want to be that person now. Haven’t I grown up after all this time? Learned my own value?

I like him, and I’m mad at myself for that, even. Why should I expect it to be a big thing?

Except that it seemed important the other night. It felt like something real. It felt like I could trust him.

Focus. Jasmine needs me.

I move the board to a drying area. “So,” I say, spreading out a big piece of white butcher paper, “let’s do something.”

“Okay.” She leans on the table. Her hair is pulled back into a scrunchie, the curls boiling out in a puff at the back and escaping in tendrils by her ears and nape. Baby hair lines the edges of her hairline, pale against her warm golden skin. “What is it?”

“Did you look for the best things about London on your iPad last night?”

A shrug. “Yeah.”

I give her a pink Sharpie. “Write one of them down.”

She chews on her lip. “I know what you’re doing.”

“Yeah? What am I doing?”