Struck by an unexplainable desire to do something with my hands, I take out the fuck-you box Dad sent me and pour its contents onto my comforter. There’s an old camera Mom gave me when I was a preteen and dabbled in amateur photography, and the sketches of the graves I drew. There are also Polaroid pictures of Mom and me in her gallery. Pictures from our Alcatraz tour and eating ice cream in Union Square, crossing the Golden Gate Bridge on our bikes, and riding the back of the cable car. Mom always said it was a travesty that big-city people never saw their home through tourists’ eyes. We loved to do the corny stuff on our free weekends, when Renn and Dad were busy hitting the waves.
I miss her so much I can’t breathe. I collapse on my comforter, next to all the memories of her, and weep. Once my tears start flooding, so do the memories. But in all this pain there is also a seed of hope. I am reminded of who I am, and more importantly—who I can become.
“I’m going to do you proud, Barbie Lawson,” I whisper, jamming my feet into my boots. I run downstairs and out the door in the pouring rain to the nearest hobby shop and slap the door open, a woman possessed. I buy a sketch pad, drawing pencils—I splurge on a thirty-five-piece set, with charcoals and pastels—and a pinboard with some pins. Then I make a beeline back home, brew myself a cup of green tea, like Mom and I used to drink, and for the first time in six years, do something that makes me happy.
I draw a gravestone.
For Mom.
When Nora comes home a day later, I tell her about the whole Joe-is-Seph debacle.
“Wait. Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait.” Nora waves her hands frantically in front of my face. We’re on the couch. Loki is in my lap, purring like a broken laundry machine. I am 55 percent sure my roommate is either drunk or completely hungover and not in a state to digest all the information I’ve just thrown at her. She is currently holding her head, presumably to keep it from exploding.
“You’re telling me that the mysterious Graves brother, Seph, is actually Joe? Your Joe? And that he’s been living in Salem all along?”
I nod, watching her closely for a reaction.
“Damn, Ever! You are so unlucky!”
I don’t like her reaction. Which is okay. Nora is entitled to say whatever is on her mind. I’m the one who volunteered this information. But I cannot help but miss Pippa. Pippa has a knack for always knowing what to say. She’d know what to do. She’d take charge and give me an in-depth analysis, followed by step-by-step instructions on what to do. But I cut all ties with her after Mom died. Not that she had anything to do with it. I was too ashamed, too embarrassed, too unworthy to keep in touch with her.
“Okay, sorry, that was totally insensitive.” Nora pats my shoulder. “What I mean is, as much as I’m impressed by how you found each other after all these years, I’m sure you know you can’t be with him, right? With Joe, I mean.”
She looks me in the eye to make sure I don’t get any crazy ideas.
I look sideways and chuckle. “Of course not. What am I, insane?”
“Phew.” Nora wipes imaginary sweat from her forehead. “Because you need to stay with Dom. I mean, any girl would be lucky to have Dom, but you two seem especially good together. He gets you. You complete one another.”
The problem with listening to Nora’s advice is that I’m no longer sure if she is giving it to better my life or her own. I know how convenient it would be if Dom asked me to move in with him tomorrow morning. Which he might, by the looks of things.
“I mean . . . sometimes I wonder, you know.” I put it out there, in the universe.
“Wonder about what?” She angles her head.
“About Dom and me. If we’re really that good together, or if it’s just because we’re so . . .” Desperate to love someone. Anyone. I need Dom because he fills my life, so loving him is easy. He is my lifeline. As for why he picked me—I’m still not completely sure about that.
“Of course you’re good together. Do you think I don’t wonder about other guys every now and then? Because I do. All the time. But ultimately, Colt is the entire package for me.”
Yes, I want to say. But that’s the thing about relationships. Experience may vary.
“I don’t know if he’s the one,” I say, because it’s the honest-to-God truth. Especially now.
“Well, do you love him?” Nora asks.
“Yeah, of course.”
“And is the sex good?”
“The sex is great.”
“Do you think he’ll be a good dad?” Nora fires her questions in dazzling speed.