When Gabe had decided to go to college in New York City, Rosa had been quietly devastated. History was repeating itself. Now, instead of being the child who couldn’t wait to fly away from the nest, she was the mother left behind.
She told herself not to feel sad; that this was the way of the world. She would let her beloved only child go, and maybe, someday, he would find his way back to her. Only, instead of Gabe’s return, the pandemic had come, and he’d moved in with his girlfriend, Ruby Danhauser, whose last name should have sent alarms whooping in her brain, instead of causing just a prickle of suspicion that Rosa had brushed aside.
She should have paid more attention, but she hadn’t. Not even when she saw pictures of Ruby, with her light eyes and her dark-blonde curls, not even when she learned that Ruby’s father was a dentist. None of it had registered until the day Gabe had called to tell her that they were getting married, and she’d finally, belatedly thought to ask for Ruby’s father’s first and last name. By the time the alarms were shrieking, the sirens were strobing, it was too late.
Rosa had managed to drive herself home, back to the apartment in Silverlake that she’d shared with her son. She went to Gabe’s bedroom, where she sat on the edge of his bed. He’d left things neat when he’d gone off to college. An orderly row of books （Animal Farm, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Old Man and the Sea） was arranged on his desk; pictures of friends, and ticket stubs from concerts had been neatly thumbtacked to a corkboard on the wall. In a silver frame on top of his dresser was a photograph of his high school graduation. Gabe was smiling at the camera, and Rosa was smiling up at him. Potted plants lined his windowsill: an aloe vera, sending spikes in every direction; a small, prickly cactus; a houseplant he’d told her was called a mother-in-law’s tongue. He’d made her promise to take care of them and had left a schedule telling her when each one needed to be watered, showing her how to test the soil. When he was little, she remembered, that was what he’d ask for. Not candy, not toys, but the cheap half-dead plants from the clearance aisles in Home Depot. Please, Mami, it’s only a dollar and I know I can fix it! he’d say. It just needs some love! Most of the time, he’d been able to bring those withered brown things back to life.
I don’t deserve him, Rosa thought. For a long moment she just sat, her hand on Gabe’s pillow, her eyes on his picture, imagining she could still catch a ghost of his scent lingering in the room. She could feel the name that he’d texted her, the name of Ruby’s father, pulsing in her brain. What are the chances? she asked herself, shaking her head. Whatever those odds were, she’d beaten them. She’d gambled and she’d lost, and now, after all these years, the bill had finally come due.
Sam
When his step-niece, Ruby, called to tell him she was engaged, Sam told her he was thrilled, and meant it. He hadn’t seen his mom or his sister and her family since before COVID. Now he had an occasion to visit. And, of course, he had his own personal reasons for wanting to make a trip to Cape Cod.
“It’ll be a small wedding, out on the deck,” Ruby said. Sam told her that it sounded fantastic. He asked about the dates and dress code and promised to get Connor a suit and a tie, all the while thinking that the world, or fate, or God Himself had sent him this opportunity, had placed it right in his lap. Now all he had to do was gather the scraps of his courage. He’d been standing on the very edge of the diving board for months. Ruby’s wedding was the push he’d needed. Now, maybe he could jump.
* * *
Samuel Levy-Weinberg had been born into a loving, upper-middle-class family, with happily married parents and a twin sister who served as his guardian, clearing the way for him, speaking up for him, happily fighting his battles, because Sarah loved a good fight. Sam had talked late, because Sarah had talked early, and in complete, declarative sentences, and Sarah had spoken for both of them: No bath. Want cookie. On the playground, she’d walk fearlessly up to a new group of kids and announce herself and Sam to them: Hi, I’m Sarah Levy-Weinberg and this is my brother, Sam. We’re twins. That was usually enough to start a conversation. Everyone had questions: Are you identical? Obviously not—identical twins had to be the same gender. Besides, they didn’t even look alike. Sam had his father’s brown hair and changeable hazel eyes, while Sarah’s hair was lighter and her eyes were a mixture of gray and blue. Did you have a secret language? Not exactly, but they’d always had a sense of what the other was feeling, a kind of twin telepathy informed by their shared history. If Sarah had gotten in a fight with her best friend, Sam would have sensed trouble, and he’d have known to get her a scoop of Purple Cow in a sugar cone and bring it to Gull Pond, where he’d find Sarah swimming. When Sam got cut from the baseball team, Sarah collected him in the car they shared, and they spent an hour or two driving on the highway, listening to the radio.