“I don’t know,” I manage to say.
“Meet me in the middle.” She doesn’t say it like a request or a command. It doesn’t even come across as a question. “I want to give you something.”
My feet start moving before my head has a chance to talk them out of it. It’s five steps from my sidewalk to the middle of the street. I’m thankful it’s not more. I don’t think I could take another step without falling apart.
“New moons are lucky,” Fiona says. “They symbolize new beginnings.”
A lump forms in my throat. “No offense to the moon, but I don’t think beginnings are all that lucky. They’re pretty painful, if you ask me.”
“It’s not the beginning that’s painful in my opinion. It’s the ending that came before it. New moons represent that too. The end of one phase and the beginning of a new.” She takes my hand, the one that used to have my engagement ring—her old engagement ring—on it, and places the slip of blank paper inside. “We don’t always get to choose when one phase ends and another begins, but we can choose how we face it.”
“I fucked it all up, Fiona.” Hot tears cascade down my face. “I let him down, just like I’ve been letting everyone down my whole life.”
“Disappointment is a part of life.” She lifts my chin gently with the back of her hand. “Show me someone who’s never disappointed their family or their lover, and I’ll show you someone who’s miserable inside.”
“I was miserable.” I gasp. “I was miserable at home. I was miserable at college, and I was miserable on the road with Smith. The only place I wasn’t miserable was when I was with you guys in Dubai. I felt so alive and happy there. I never wanted to leave, and now I can never go back.”
“You don’t need to.” She dries my tears with the sleeve of her sweater. “Happiness isn’t a place you go back to. Happiness is a place you build and rebuild and then tear down and remodel a thousand times over inside you.”
“I don’t know how to start.”
“You already have.” Fiona presses the tea light into my palm. “Write down your dreams, hopes, and desires on a slip of paper, and burn them. My mother used to call it writing love letters to the universe. Set your intentions and trust yourself to follow through.”
She pulls me into a hug, and I allow myself to sink into her arms like a child. Somehow, I know that this is my last Fiona hug for a long time, maybe forever, and I want to make a memory of it. When we finally let go, I notice that her eyes are glistening with tears. She’s going to miss me too. We’re going to miss each other, and I take a tiny bit of comfort in knowing that it won’t just be me.
“One more thing. Smoky quartz for good travels and protection.” She unclasps the necklace hanging from her neck and drapes it around mine. “Go write a love letter to the universe and yourself.”
“I will,” I say. “I promise.”
And deep down I know that this is a promise I will not break.
Chapter 25
My mother and Nana Rosie take the morning shift with my father. They offer it to me, but the truth is, I’m not ready to be alone with my dad. I’ve built it up in my head that the next time we see each other will be the start of what I want our relationship to look like from here on out, and I’m not sure I’ve figured out exactly how to do that just yet. How do you reintroduce yourself to someone who’s known you your whole life?
Thankfully, there are plenty of things that need attention at home, and lucky for me, some of those things include Martin, like stopping by my father’s office. As my father’s attorney, Falon needs some documents. While he hasn’t officially made any decisions about his continued role in his company, we want to make it as easy as possible for him to delegate extra responsibilities to other partners in order to get the rest he needs.
“And if you happen to stop and get some ice cream”—Phoebe hands me her keys in the garage—“I wouldn’t be mad about it.”
“What happened to watching everyone’s diet?” I ask. “You tried to deprive me of mayonnaise.”
“I don’t have to watch mine. I’m going to Australia, where I will likely be eaten by a spider the size of my thigh in my sleep.” She lowers her voice and fixes her gaze on the back door. “Between you and me, I’m not sure I’m built for Australia. This was really more Falon’s dream than mine.”
“Between you and me,” I say, “you should go wherever that woman wants to take you. She’s pretty exceptional. Don’t fuck it up.”
“You want to take my bike?” Martin emerges from the other side of the garage, holding two helmets. “It’s a little chilly this morning, but you can wear my jacket.”
“Between you and me,” Phoebe whispers, “he might be the only straight man I’m ever going to want to spend a holiday with.” She pats my shoulder. “Don’t fuck it up.”
I put on the helmet and hang on as Martin drives us the scenic way through the city. I’ve written plenty of motorcycle montages in my books, but none of them come close to capturing what it actually feels like. Your heart feels like it’s flying and falling at the same time. Like you can’t catch your breath, but you’re not scared. It’s my second favorite thing I’ve ever done with a man.
It’s been years since I’ve been in my father’s office. The building has the exterior Victorian charm that’s a staple of Coronado Island, but the inside is sleek and modern. At first, I think I’ll wait in the lobby, but Martin tells me it might take him a while to go through all the files.
I’m not sure why, but I’m hesitant to go into my dad’s office. It almost feels like an invasion of his privacy. Our home has always been my mother’s domain. Sure, my dad has a den and an office there, but those spaces were carefully curated by my mother. My father’s work office has always been sacred. When Phoebe and I were little girls, Mom would bring us to visit on Fridays. We’d take turns playing hide-and-seek under his big desk, or spinning in his massive leather chair until we were dizzy with laughter.
Inside, Martin sits at Dad’s old cherrywood desk. It doesn’t look nearly as big as it is in my memory. Immediately, I pick up the photo of me reading that Martin mentioned on one of our walks.
“Told you it was here,” he says. “Come around on this side and see what else he’s got.”
There’s a photo of Phoebe and Falon sitting at our patio table outside. They’re holding glasses of margaritas and wearing ridiculous sunglasses with American flags on them. My mother likes to throw a big Fourth of July cookout before the town parade. Even though I haven’t been since high school, she always mailed me an invite.
I’ll be there for it this year, I think to myself. This year, I’ll be there for all of it.
“That picture of your mom and grandma might be my favorite.” Martin points to a photo of the two of them sitting on a swing at a little B and B they used to visit every year in Napa. Mom is pregnant with me and Phoebe, her belly the size of a watermelon, and she’s laughing because Nana Rosie’s side of the swing is lifted higher than hers. “Your mom looks so happy there.”
“She always said she hated being pregnant.” I run my finger along the frame. “Guess I’ll have to remind her of this.”
Smith closes the filing cabinet next to my father’s desk. “I’ve got what I need. You ready?”
I pick up the photo of me on his desk. “Can we stop one more place?”
He hands me my helmet. “We can go wherever you want.”
“Then two more stops. Please.”
It’s late afternoon when Martin and I arrive at the hospital. Dad’s visiting hours are restricted, but Martin was able to negotiate a few moments for me to be alone with my father. He looks smaller. As if the procedure to fix his heart somehow shrunk his presence.