I swipe a tepid Diet Coke from the counter—cluttered with everything that doesn’t strictly necessitate refrigeration—and walk into my bedroom.
Once, a three-night stand during my first whirlwind month in New York described this room as what he assumed a thrift store would look like. I’ve latched on to that ever since like it was the biggest compliment in the world, even though I’m pretty sure the dude meant it as a dig. The furniture is ramshackle, my “closet” is just a freestanding Ikea rack of vintage clothes and sample sale purchases, and I can’t see out the window because it’s mostly taken up by the AC unit. Also, it smells like Chinese food from the restaurant one building over mellowed out by sage smudges.
I like what he’d said, though, about the room being thrifted, because that word never fails to remind me of Mom. She died of lung cancer when I was six—a chain-smoker till the end, as Dad tells it with equal parts annoyance and affection—but in every rare, precious photo of her, she’s wearing all these awesome outfits you’d never find in Aritzia. I think part of her fashion sense came from being a Londoner and part came from being a concert photographer. Whatever it was, the woman had style. I was too young to remember most things about her, but I remember sitting on her bed while she got dressed every morning, designing her OOTD in the floor-length mirror. That, I remember.
And suddenly, I’m feeling homesick, dialing my father.
“Hi, honey!” Dad shouts on the other end of the FaceTime call. I wince at the piercing shrill of his voice and hold the phone away from my face, but I can’t help grinning. Dad has a graying ponytail and weathered skin, and his cheeks get rounder each time I see him.
“Hey, Dad. What’s good?”
“Casey!” My stepdad, Jerry, appears, bald with wire-rimmed glasses that frame bright green eyes. He and Dad grin in a way I hardly deserve. “Look at my amaryllis! Here, gimme that.”
There’s a scuffle, during which I hear, “Jer!” Then the phone drops, and the screen goes black. I bite my bottom lip, fighting a snort.
“Casey!” Dad bellows. “Are you okay?”
“Oh my God, you guys dropping your own cell phone can’t hurt—never mind.”
The phone is scooped back up, and I get a glorious view of Jerry’s nose hairs. “Come with me,” he tells me.
“Right behind you.”
Thirty seconds later, he flashes me the amaryllis in question after I give him pointers on how to flip the camera to its front view. I sit up in bed, genuinely astounded. The amaryllis is healthy and vibrant, with tall, green stalks and gorgeous pink flowers.
“Wait, is that the same bulb?” I ask in disbelief. “The dried-up one—”
“That I got from the neighbors’ compost bin? Yeah!” Jerry sticks a thumb up in front of the camera.
Dad snorts somewhere nearby. “You stole it from the neighbor’s compost bin.”
“I didn’t steal it.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“They threw it away.”
I tilt my head from side to side. “I mean, they could have been experimenting with how it would fare in an environment of biological degradation.”
“Only we would do something that weird. I thought you were on my side with this one.” Jerry pouts.
“I am. I can’t believe you got it to bloom.”
“I did exactly what you suggested,” Jerry says proudly. “I mixed three parts Miracle-Gro with one part sandy soil, seven days outdoors and two days in. Water sparingly.”
“The student has become the master,” I brag.
“Don’t push it, sweetheart.”
Dad steals the phone back from his husband and flips the camera around. He pushes the glasses up the bridge of his nose and says, as if plants are utterly boring, “Anyway. Listen to this drama about the family across the street. It involves a Serbian cellist and half a dozen illegitimate children, all of whom are named after a pastry. Jer and I got invited to this Yom Kippur break fast.…”
I listen obediently to the scandalous tale of my parents’ weird new neighbors and the murder-mystery-esque plot that unfolded at Yom Kippur break fast. I give soft, convincing mm-hmms during the juicy bits, only halfway paying attention, but by the time Dad gets to the part about a hidden message in the cellist’s music indicating a seventh illegitimate Serbian child named Croissant, I’m laughing my ass off, buried in my mountain of jewel-tone pillows.
“I’m calling bluff,” I say at last, bleary tears staining my cheeks.
“Fine,” Dad mutters. “Only about half of that is true. You’re too sharp these days, kiddo. But they really did name their offspring after pastries.”
He talks and talks and talks some more until he’s told me every menial detail about whatever floats into his head. Jerry pipes up every now and then, and they have a whole conversation about which Aldi cracker brand they like best for charcuterie boards before they steer themselves back to me.
“How are you doing, Case?” Jerry asks. Before I can answer, he adds, “I heard a story about you from someone you know from college, Andrew something. He works at an event-planning company?”
“Andrew Martinez,” I supply.
“Yes! He ordered an apology bouquet for his girlfriend, but that’s none of my business. I mean, it’s technically my business, since I’m his florist, but anyway, he saw you on YouTube. Is that part of your finance job?”
I giggle. “No, it’s not related to finance.” I try to explain, but I think I lose Dad and Jerry somewhere between vertical and profit optimization. We occasionally fumble in our communications at the junction of where art meets STEM.
“Now I’m craving hot chicken,” Jerry says. “Can you show us how to watch the YouTube video?”
“I’ll text you guys the link.”
“Thanks, hon,” Dad says. “Have you thought about coming home for Thanksgiving?”
Ugh. I knew that was coming.
I haven’t seen my parents in nearly a year. We vacationed in Key West last Thanksgiving, but I didn’t go home for Christmas because the year before, I’d visited Nashville and experienced some sort of … geographical depression. It’s what I assume people who hate the cold feel like during winter.
If I had to psychoanalyze it, I think it comes back to my college ex. Our knock-down-drag-out-graduation-day breakup. We had just exited the auditorium in our black caps and gowns, our stoles and cords draped over our necks, when I got the call. From an HR rep at Little Cooper, telling me they were offering me a job as an entry-level financial analyst.
I was shocked. I’d already written off the interview as hopeless, thought my chances of landing the job were especially slim considering the lineup of Ivies the other people in LC’s Finance department had graduated from. Miriam was the one who pushed me to apply; she was moving here to work as a nurse, and with Sasha heading to Manhattan, too, I’d thrown a few applications at the wall just to see what might stick.
Little Cooper stuck. And with that brand-new option before me, I realized something.
Moving back to Nashville with Lance would be a given, but moving to New York with Miriam would be a choice.