“How? How can you feel all of that with her and still be okay?”
“Because I have a whole life outside of her,” he says gently. “I have friends, family, goals, and a future that, yeah, of course I’d hoped she’d be a part of. But I’ll survive it if she isn’t.” Now it’s his turn to reach out and squeeze my hands. “You will too.”
I don’t ask him who he is referring to.
* * *
I’m working on notes for our Socratic seminar in English tomorrow, sprawled out on the floor with my curtains shut tight, when Mom lightly knocks on my door.
“Dad’s doing a load of laundry, if you need anything washed,” she says, tone impartial. But her eyes light up when she sees my notes. “What’s all this?”
“We’re finishing up our unit on literary theory.” My throat dries at the memory of me and Talia working on our unit papers together. Was that really only a week ago? How long has it been since Mom and I had a normal conversation? Time flies when you’re having an identity crisis.
“One of my favorite undergraduate classes was on literary theory and criticisms,” she sighs, leaning against the door and tucking a lock of thin hair behind her ear. “Barthes was always my favorite.”
I perk up. “Really?”
She nods excitedly, the first real smile she’s shown me in what feels like forever emerging on her face. “Oh yeah, I ate up his work as an undergrad. ‘The lover’s fatal identity is precisely: I am the one who waits’?” She clutches her chest and sighs. “That one really got me.”
“Me too.”
Her knees crack as she lowers herself to the floor across from me. “Roland Barthes believed that what we truly want is our own desire—”
“Yeah, the cake and the idea of the cake,” I interrupt, then catch myself. I don’t want to waste this amicable moment. “What’s your take on the lover part though?”
“In his work A Lover’s Discourse, he claimed that”—her eyes get hazy as she looks off—“‘The lover’s fatal identity is precisely this: I am the one who waits.’”
“What does it mean?” I ask softly, so softly I worry Mom hasn’t heard me. She doesn’t react immediately, but when she finally looks at me, she seems content.
“It means those who love are always waiting. Waiting to be seen, waiting to be understood. Waiting to be loved back.” She sighs. “‘The lover is the one who waits.’”
I swallow, my saliva thick and heavy. “Did he think the lover would ever find another lover? You know, someone just like them? That one day their waiting would end?”
She smiles sadly, tight-lipped and closemouthed. “I don’t think so.”
“Oh.”
She stands, knees cracking on the way up too, before adjusting the blue cotton cardigan Dad gave her for Christmas years ago. Somehow it still looks vibrant and new, despite the years of washing. “I think you can see why I ate up those words during my youth.”
I lean back, propping myself up on my palms. “You don’t believe it anymore?”
She pauses, fingers grazing my prom dress where it’s still hanging on the back of my door. “I believe he believed it. I believe I believed it. And I still believe it’s absolutely beautiful. But I don’t think the truest love is deemed so because it’s the most painful. Waiting for someone to love you back seems beautiful in a miserable way when you’re young. No offense.” She smiles. “But a life spent waiting is not a life spent loving. It’s a life spent wasting away on the promise of something you’re not guaranteed.”
My words are tough to get out amid the sound of my heart pounding in my ears. “I can see why you have such a high score on Rate My Professors.”
Mom laughs hard, harder than I’ve seen her laugh in a long time. “Thanks.”
I go back to studying, losing myself in the theories and analysis of everything from love to loss to perspective to humanity. And I get it, I really get it. Not the theories—God knows I’m a lost cause right now when it comes to anything existential. But I get why Mom loves this; I get why she wants me to love it.
And, I guess, I get why I do.
TWENTY-ONE
I groan and rub at the kink in my neck. My phone is ringing way too loudly for my liking. I fumble for it for so long, I nearly miss the call. I answer and press it against my ear without checking the caller ID.
“Hello?” I say groggily, rubbing my eyes as they adjust to my pitch-black room. I must have passed out while studying, sometime after showering, because my notes surround me in bed.
“Finally! Ugh, I know it’s late, bu—”
“Get to the point, Ags,” I mumble, recognizing her voice. I check the time—three in the morning.
“I was getting to it,” she replies sharply. “Did you see the Insta post?” The seriousness of her tone, switching so quickly, jolts me awake.
“What post?” I ask, putting her on speakerphone so I can check Instagram, my own anxiety working faster than her storytelling abilities.
“Wesley and Lindsay are going to prom together,” she says. “He asked her tonight, showed up at her house with flowers and this cheesy drawing and—well, you’ll see it all in the post.”
I mouth several choice words in relief. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. “Was the bet really this urgent? I’ll give you your money tomorrow.”
“My money? Wha—no, O, I’m not calling about our fucking bet.”
“Then why are you calling?” I sigh, flopping back into my pillows.
“Because Sammie is freaking out! Are you kidding me right now? Is whatever you’re dealing with really so serious that you forgot about your best friend?” she yells. “He called me like fifteen minutes ago half sobbing, muttering complete nonsense. I tried to calm him down, but he hung up on me and said he was going to go to your house since he figured you’d listen to him.” I can’t see her, but I can guarantee she’s rolling her eyes. “I called you, like, ten times before you picked up.”
I check my notifications, and sure enough, I have eleven missed calls from Agatha. Good on her for not exaggerating.
Before I can reply, I hear something downstairs.
I spring out of bed, nearly tripping on my comforter, and fly down the stairs with my phone still in hand, Agatha shouting my name over the speaker.
Sammie bursts through the front door with the exact grace one would expect of a heartbroken teenage boy. He tries to jam his key, that goddamn extra key that my parents just had to give him, into his pocket, but his hand misses and the key hits the hardwood floor with a sharp ping.
“What are you doing here?” I whisper-yell as I pocket the key and my phone. I drag him to the living room and push him onto the sofa.
“Did you see it?” he croaks, eyes red.