Before You Go

TWENTY-EIGHT

Today’s calendar says Thanksgiving is only five days away, which means the visit from my mother is only five days away. More importantly, it means I have to spend five days without Noah.

He left to Pennsylvania to spend time with his older brother—no doubt an important priority after watching Jenna lose hers.

Noah and I have spent almost every free moment together over the past two weeks. We have yet to make it to the final phase of our sensate focus experiment, but we’ve pretty much mastered phase two, and I feel closer to him than I have ever felt with anyone. I feel nothing but dread with all this time apart.

Thankfully, there’s still a lot to do before the holiday to keep my mind busy. Less than a week away, I need to help Amy shop, try to drop a few pounds, and OMG, look at my rat’s nest. My mom would lose her shit if she knew about my lack of personal grooming since I moved away.

Instead of using the flatiron, I slick all my hair back into a ponytail, and then immediately schedule a hair appointment. The kind receptionist is able to get me in this afternoon.

The salon, a recommendation from Amy, is only a few blocks away, so I walk to my appointment. The place is easy to find. In front of the door is a purple awning with the word Foiled splashed across it in faux graffiti.

I step inside to the familiar smells of shampoo and hair chemicals, and check in at the desk. The salon is small, with only four chairs, but it is packed and alive with the most eclectic group of people I’ve ever seen in one place. Rita, a twenty-something pierced goddess, shows me to the second chair. On my right, a grandma is having her weekly shampoo and style, and on my left is a girl getting a dye job to match her fuchsia eye shadow. I can’t see who is in the last seat because four waify guys are huddled around the chair that seems to be the source of the stream of profanity ringing in my ears. Apparently it’s a guy having something waxed.

“So, chica,” Rita says, digging her fingers into my hair. “What are we doing today?”

“Well,” I start talking to Rita’s reflection in the framed mirror. “It needs to be cleaned up for sure. Maybe take it up an inch and do a conditioning treatment. And an eyebrow wax?”

“Can do, hun,” she says and proceeds to pile a load of trashy magazines on my lap. “Quality reading here. Enjoy.”

I do.

On the way home, I stop by a little boutique. I want to pick up something nice to wear for the holiday. Mom will notice. It’s been so long since we’ve really gotten along, I just want it to be normal between us. If I can look and act like I’m getting better, maybe we’ll be better.

I settle on a pale blue sweater. Mom’s favorite color.

###

Over the next five days, I’m incredibly lonely. Not only is Noah gone, but Jules is in homework hell. To pass the time, I work out like a mad woman and mess with my hair—and everything at Dad and Amy’s house—to make sure it’s perfect for my mom.

I spend Thanksgiving Eve at Dad’s, and by the time the big day arrives, I’m feeling pretty good. My phone goes off at nine a.m. and I’m still in bed. My bed is so warm, I hate to leave it, but it could be Noah so I snap to it, throw a sweatshirt over my pjs, and pick up my phone on the dresser by the third ring.

“Hello,” I answer before clearing my throat.

“Whoa, lady, settle down. It’s just me.”

Jules.

“No need to go all sultry and sexy on me so early in the a.m.” She giggles. “You thought it was Noah, didn’t you, you little minx?”

My body shakes in laughter; I have to admit she’s pretty cute. “Boy, we sure are spunky this morning.”

“But of course. I’m getting ready for precious family time. Not to mention, I get my eat-on in just a few hours. What about you? What time does Mommy Dearest arrive? Dum, dum, dummmmmm.”

“Noon, I guess. I’ve been trying not to think about it.”

“Well, keep me updated. If you need anything, call. Moral support, a kick in the ass, you name it. I’m your girl. Plus, I’ll need the reprieve.”

“Will do.”

“Okay, I’m off. Aunt Bee will be here shortly with her three perfect children. Can’t wait. Good luck today.”

“You, too. Happy Thanksgiving, Jules.”

“Gobble, gobble,” she clucks before hanging up.

Her pep talk works and I’m in good spirits when I head toward the shower. After my little workout session last night, I smell something fierce. The phone rings again before I make it to my bathroom so I backpedal.

I’m sure Jules just forgot a parting smart-ass comment.

“Yeeessss,” I answer in a low voice.

“Tabitha?”

Oh God. It’s Mom.

“Mom?”

“Oh honey, I have some bad news.”

“What?” My stomach drops and my brain goes into the “who’s died” mode.

“We can’t make it out today. Stephen has been called into an early board meeting first thing tomorrow, and there’s no way we can make it there and back in twenty-four hours without killing ourselves.”

Silence.

“Honey?”

While I try to process what she’s just told me, I end up having a rather steaming conversation with her in my head. It goes something like this:

Me: Yes, heaven forbid you get less than eight hours of sleep, or come by yourself to visit your only daughter, who by the way, you haven’t seen in months.

Mom: Oh honey, come on now, let’s not be so melodramatic. You know I’d be there if I could.

Me: No. No, Mom, I really don’t.

Mom: Tabitha!

Back in the real world, the convo is more like this:

“Okay, Mom.” I pretend to be totally uninterested.

“Will you give my apologies to your father and Amy?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Then I only half-listen when she goes on about Stephen’s business, important work, and bad timing. She moves on and mentions we’ll have to do Christmas, like she’s talking to one of her friends—the other desperate housewives. They’re always doing something. Let’s do lunch, or do brunch, or do coffee.

I say it’s time to do some parenting? How ’bout that?

I know I was dreading her visit, but I guess part of me really wanted to see her. In some strange way, I was happy she was coming all the way to see me. In some way, I miss her. Terribly.

I’m not sure how long I stand in the hallway. I’m frozen, staring into space until Amy comes up.

“Tabby,” she commands. “Tabby? What is it?” Her eyes furrow. Now she’s going into the “who’s died” mode.

“Oh nothing,” I start to shake it off. “It was Mom. She can’t make it. Something about Stephen’s work, blah, blah, blah.”

“Goddammit,” Amy spits.

I walk toward the shower, but Amy stops me. She pulls me into a hug and gives me no choice but to take it. She knows there’s more behind my words. She. Just. Knows.

I let myself go in her arms and hang on.

And despite everything, Amy makes sure the three of us have a nice Thanksgiving. We really do. I couldn’t ask for better parents than her and my dad.

Still, when I get to my apartment, I throw my new sweater into the trash.

TWENTY-NINE

The next morning, I vow not to let Mom bring me down. Instead, I put on my leggings, sports bra, and wrap under my jacket. I eat half a granola bar for energy and grab my bag of slippers and iPod before heading out to the Center for the Arts. I’ve decided that just because I’m not studying dance anymore doesn’t mean I have to become a lazy pile. Plus, on the off chance I want to go to tryouts next month, I need to get myself in serious shape. The little workouts in my living room are not enough.

I find an open room at the center and easily fall into a groove. I listen to my music and focus on my breathing at the barre. A real ballet barre. I haven’t had the privilege of working out on one of these babies for months. I want to kiss it.

After warm up, I start with chaines turns across the floor. I stumble at first, but quickly recover. I keep moving, listening to my music, and focusing on spotting as I move. Soon I’m gliding around the entire space.

How I’ve missed it.

###

By the end of the long Thanksgiving weekend, my stamina improves. I can already notice the pep in my step—I have more energy and I’m sleeping better. I’ve even been able to blow off Mom’s emails without getting all weepy. I’m totally committed to my new morning routine, and by the time I have to go back to class, I jump out of bed actually excited to hit the floor.

Today, though, I don’t focus on the music or my breathing. I focus on my English Lit presentation I have to give with Noah today. How will I concentrate on class when I haven’t seen him—or touched him, or tasted him—since before the holiday? Obviously, we’ve talked a few times and shared a few inappropriate texts, but who knows if I’ll be able to control myself when I see him. His flight doesn’t get in until late this morning, but he promised he’d be back in time.

At class, I wait patiently, watching the door. Noah is the last to walk in. He smiles and hurries over. Once he gets to my desk, he gives me a little squeeze on the shoulder and whispers in my ear, “You’re going to be great, don’t worry.”

I’m so grateful he keeps his comments focused on our project, because I don’t think I could handle it if he said much more.

Noah gets up and gives me a little shove. We stand before the class. My mouth waters and I keep swallowing like I’m chugging a nonexistent post-rehearsal Gatorade. Noah looks over, gives me a wink, and launches into his spiel.

“My first time reading this book, I totally agreed with the protagonist, Bryon,” Noah says after giving a short synopsis of the novel. “I thought he was justified in what he did, but after reading it again…okay, for like the tenth time to tell the truth, I’m not sure.”

We swap the spotlight. Back and forth. We make points about what we learned from the novel. We talk about the part drugs played in the story, as well as economics and gang violence. We discuss how a big piece of the book is about taking responsibility for your actions and making hard choices. After about four minutes, it's time for my big finish.

Noah gives me a nod.

“In the end, after reading this book again, our reactions were so different than they were the first time,” I say without stumbling over my words. Big surprise. “We think that, maybe, we were both a little cold to these characters the first time around. It was black and white. What Mark did was wrong; he was selling drugs and may have been responsible for ruining a little kid’s life. He deserved what he got. But after we read the story again, we could sympathize with Mark. And because we’ve grown up a little more since the first time read it, we now realize that things aren’t always black and white. Sometimes there’s not the right choice, there’s just a better choice. For each person.”

Of course by the end of my spiel, I’m not sure I’m talking about the book anymore.

Professor Sands nods at both of us, stands, and claps.

The weight has lifted from my shoulders and I’m almost giddy. After class, I wait for Noah. I’m dying to get him back to my apartment where I can have him all to myself, but he has to stop at the paper first.

His hand slides in mine as he gives me a wicked grin. “Before we go, I need to ask you something.”

I look back and see something devilish in his eyes.

I’m so in trouble.