“Later, as I grew older but none the wiser, I realized some lost trains of thought never did get back on track. I remember forgetting the name of the woman who’d been with me at wine club for years; now I can’t even conjure her face! Your father always dismissed my worries. ‘You’re overthinking it,’ he said, not looking up from his paper, because, of course, he could read for hours, while I could no longer focus for more than a page at a time. ‘Everyone forgets things, Sally.’ But not everyone had watched their mother disappear right before her own eyes and knew that one day she might face the same fate. Not everyone knew what it was to have made the right decision at the wrong time. If I’d moved Nana Meyers up from Florida and into our home when it all began, it could have spared her some of that fast fading. That would have required telling the truth, though, and I’d promised her I wouldn’t.”
Laine set down the notebook and pen and sat beside me on the bed. Then she wrapped me in her arms. “Oh, Mom, you couldn’t have. Don’t blame yourself.”
I did, but not for the reasons she was probably thinking. “I believed love and loyalty were doing whatever your mother asked of you,” I said quietly. “They’re not. I understand that now. And I guess I’m telling you all this now, Laine, so you have a chance to learn it before I forget.”
THIRTY-ONE
LAINE
I expected my mother’s confession about her memory to leave me feeling gobsmacked. Instead, it brought deep relief. She already knew she had a problem; that was one hurdle I no longer needed to clear. And no wonder she’d been trying to pretend she was fine. How devastating, to carry my grandmother’s secret like that—and then begin to realize that fate had dealt her the same hand. And after decades of opacity, she’d actually been willing to open up to me about her memory—and equally surprising, her relationships with my father and Reggie. To learn that, in her strange and admittedly misguided way, she’d actually been trying not to be selfish . . . well, it was such an unexpected change in the narrative that when she finally stopped telling me her story, the only words I could muster were thank you.
I’d just put the notebook away when Ben texted to see if I would be up for having lunch at his place. I knew Piper would be arriving around noon, so I called her to make sure she wouldn’t mind if I left for a while. She didn’t, and after I checked in with Josh, who was out grabbing groceries for us, I told Ben I’d love to swing by.
I’d skipped breakfast, so when I rang Ben’s doorbell, I couldn’t tell if the nervousness I was feeling was low blood sugar or actual anxiety. It’s no big deal, I told myself as I tried not to fidget while I waited for him.
But when he swung open the door and smiled at me, my stomach did a weird roller-coaster move and I was forced to admit that blood sugar had bupkis to do with it. Even my mother had known he’d been in love with me. Even though it had been years ago, I still felt stunned . . . and strangely pleased.
But maybe the only strange thing about it was the realization that I wanted him to feel that way about me now, too.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” I said back, hoping I didn’t sound as awkward as I felt.
“Come on in.”
“Okay,” I said, following him.
“I thought I’d find out what you’re in the mood for before I started cooking,” he said once we were in the living room. “Omelet? Salad?”
Maybe it was the apartment—though redecorated, it was still incredibly familiar, and also seemed just so thoroughly Ben—but I could feel myself starting to relax. I tilted my head to one side and said, “Will I sound like a glutton if I say ‘both’?”
He laughed. “Nope. That’s what I was thinking, too.” He motioned for me to follow him into the kitchen. I sat on one of the stools at the counter and watched him as he rolled up his sleeves and pulled an apron over his T-shirt. “Mushrooms?” he said.
“Yes, please.”
“Even the weird ones?” he asked, pulling a container holding a cloud of lion’s mane mushrooms from the fridge.
I nodded. “Especially the weird ones.”
“Never change, Laine Francis.”
I wanted to tell him that I was trying to change—but as I watched him float around the kitchen, his culinary moves almost balletic, I realized that some things about me probably would always stay the same. Like the fact that I couldn’t help but be aware of my skin when he was around. Any other time, it was like air or gravity: just there, a simple part of humanity and certainly nothing to notice. But when Ben was near, there was a subtle buzz just below the surface, almost like a low electric current reminding me I was alive.
“Chives? Maybe some goat cheese?” he said, sticking his head back in the fridge.
“All that sounds perfect,” I said.
He put the produce in a colander and washed it off. “You’re still not picky about food, huh?” he said as he plucked out the chives and mushrooms and began to slice them on a cutting board.
“I’m very picky,” I said. “Just not about food. Leave an eggshell on the counter and I’ll break into hives.”
He grinned. “Then you really haven’t changed.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“Good,” he said. “Definitely good.”
He cracked an egg into a bowl with a single hand, then another and another. It was impossible not to be mesmerized by the way he moved. He’d always had an ease to him, but in the past sixteen years, he’d developed a different sort of confidence. “I could watch that all day,” I confessed.
“Cooking is kind of hypnotic, isn’t it? Sometimes I just put cooking shows on in the background to relax. Like, it’s impossible to think about everything that’s wrong with the world when someone’s chatting about salad dressing or a soufflé,” he said, starting to whisk the eggs.
I nodded. That was probably why I’d barely thought about my mother since I’d gotten to Ben’s. Yes, she was just a few doors down, and in light of what she’d told me, some major questions—ones that were awfully close to the life-and-death variety—were hanging over our heads. But right now, it was just me and Ben and the makings of what promised to be an amazing meal.
He sprinkled some salt in the bowl, then poured the mixture into the pan. The eggs made a sizzling sound as they spread out in the butter. “You remember when I started cooking?”
“Of course,” I said. “It wasn’t long after your mom left. I think I recall you saying you would die if you had to eat another one of your dad’s bologna sandwiches.”
He hooted as he tossed in the mushrooms and chives. “That’s the absolute truth. I still won’t go near the stuff.”
“You remember when we almost burned this very kitchen down?” I said. The kitchen was the one room he didn’t seem to loathe, so if we were at his house, we were usually here.
He shook his head, but he was already laughing again. “And how I sprayed my brother’s awful body spray all over to try to cover up the smell?”
“And your dad came home, and said it smelled like someone had lit a locker room on fire.”
Ben flipped the omelet with a single flick of his wrist. “But he didn’t tell me to stop cooking, did he?”
I laughed, more from happiness than anything else. Recalling these old memories, the good ones, made me feel warm and safe. It made me feel like myself—the version I liked. “He must have known you’d go pro with it one day. Speaking of cooking, how’s your new job going?”
“Fine.” He sprinkled goat cheese over the eggs, which were golden brown.
I inhaled and ordered myself not to drool. “Just fine?”
He shrugged. “It’s a great opportunity, but a gig is a gig is a gig. I learned a long time ago that it’s easier to move on when you don’t let yourself get too attached.”
Our eyes met, and neither of us looked away.
My insides felt all wobbly and my heart was pounding in my chest. But I dared myself to speak anyway. “What if you want to get attached?”
“What if you want to?” he said, and I couldn’t help but notice that his voice was an octave lower than normal.
“I do,” I said quietly.
He turned off the burner, then leaned against the counter and looked at me. “I’ve really liked having you back in my life, Laine.”