“You knew?” I ask, surprised.
“Renn told me.”
“You two talk?” I try to conceal my shock with a fake cough.
Pippa laughs harder. “Good to know you’re still doing that thing where you cough when you get nervous.”
“I’m not nervous,” I lie.
“Really? So why don’t you take your fingernails out of your mouth, missy?”
I realize I’ve been munching on them and do just that, then wipe my hand over my shirt. I’m amazed I have made it this far without talking to Pippa. She is the closest thing to Mom I have. She knows every piece of me. Even the bad ones. Especially those.
“We try to catch up once a month for coffee, Renn and me,” she explains.
“Neither of you drink coffee,” I say flatly.
“I said coffee? I meant beer.”
“He is not twenty-one yet.”
“That’s not what his fake ID says.” She laughs.
My mood is instantly lifted, even though Joe brushed me off and basically told me to go screw myself in his last message, though not in so many words.
I forgive you is code for Don’t worry about me. Just stay on your side of the continent and leave me the heck alone.
It goes against what I want to do, but I have to respect his wishes.
There’s a brief silence between Pippa and me before she sighs. “Fine. You can take me out for drinks and lunch.”
I laugh. “Thank you. Where do you want to go? Your choice.”
But I already know. We have a spot. It is the best restaurant in all of San Francisco.
“Wayfare Tavern. And I’m ordering cocktails. A lot of cocktails. Watch me blow up that bill.”
“Go ham. When?” I ask.
“Noon. Don’t be late.”
She hangs up.
I stagger out of my room. It’s a Monday, and Renn is at college and Dad is at work. Donna is sitting in the kitchen, reading the paper and listening to the radio like it’s the nineties or something. She laughs at something the radio host says. She is pretty endearing, in a you-are-still-not-my-mom sort of way.
She glances beyond the rim of her reading glasses and smiles. “Hello, Ever. Would you like me to fix you a cup of coffee? Maybe an omelet?”
I shake my head and grab a seat in front of her. She puts her newspaper down and sits back. “You look . . . thoughtful.”
“I have a lot on my mind,” I say, still unsure how I feel about her. My heart desperately wants to reject her, but every other part of me realizes that she is being very nice and supportive, and that no part of her has to be. I’m not a surly teenager. I’m on the cusp of twenty-five.
She taps the table between us. “Unload some of it here. I’m a good listener.”
I nibble on the side of my thumbnail, deciding that confiding in her is better than confiding in no one.
“I just called my best friend, whom I disappeared on six years ago. I’m seeing her at noon. At our favorite restaurant. I don’t even know what she looks like these days. I don’t know what she does for a living. If she’s married.”
“Good. You’ll have a lot to catch up on, so there won’t be any awkward silence.” Donna raises her coffee cup in a salute motion.
“She really tried to stay in touch. What if I disappoint her? What if she realizes that I’m not all that? What if she decides to stop hanging out with me?”
Donna smiles. “That is highly unlikely, but if that happens—you’ll survive it. Just like you’ve survived everything else life has thrown at you so far.”
It is a surprisingly good answer. Honest but still uplifting.
“Now, how about we go to Westfield and buy you a few outfits to choose from, so when you see her, you’ll look like a knockout?” Donna wiggles her shoulders.
“What’s wrong with how I look?” I ask, feigning innocence. I look like a mess. I’m wearing one of Renn’s shirts and torn yoga pants.
She doesn’t take the bait and doesn’t rush to apologize. “You look like you haven’t gotten out of bed in nearly two months. Which, for the record, is exactly what’s happened. Let’s go.”
“No thanks. You’re not my real mom.” I roll my eyes, joking.
“I don’t aim to be. I have my own children, and they keep me very busy. Come on now.” She stands up and carries the coffee mug to the sink.
“Can I come in my onesie?” I turn to look at her.
“Only if I can come in mine.” Donna rinses the coffee mug with a shrug.