“The bitter cold weather is causing delays,” I said. “And some drunken Santas that had to be kicked off the train.”
“Was SantaCon today?” Mom said. I nodded. “Good day to be gone from the city. Like the streets aren’t packed enough at this time of the year. They were cute at first. Now they’re nuisances.”
I saw the ends of a cocktail dress peeking from beneath Mom’s long, heavy coat, and she wore fancy high-heeled shoes on her feet. I knew Mom had more important places she was supposed to be, but I was having an existential crisis. I needed her more. “Thanks for meeting me at such short notice. You didn’t say anything to Dad or Langston, right?”
Mom shook her head. She couldn’t outright say no to my question, because we’d both know she was lying, like when she swore to me she hadn’t told them when I got my first bra and my first period, but she totally had. Mom said, “I’ve got an hour, tops. Dad’s entertaining financial donors now, so I don’t need to be there for that, but I have to get back in time for the start of the faculty party, if I still want to be married by the end of it. So unless you want to come with me and be paraded around as the headmaster’s daughter, I’m going to have to put you back on the train to Manhattan in an hour.”
“I understand.” Along with all my other faults of late, I was wasting my mother’s lovely party dress and face on sitting in a car with sullen me. “You look very pretty.” My mother usually goes for the yoga-pants-and-loose-shirts-with-unbrushed-hair-pulled-back-in-a-bun look, but when she puts on some mascara and lipstick and blows out her hair, it’s like, Wow, Mom, you’re a babe!
“Thank you. I got you this.” Mom handed me a paper coffee cup that had a molasses cookie on top of it.
“It’s coffee? This cup is cold.” She was being so nice to me when I didn’t deserve it, so I don’t know why I was acting so whiny besides that I was having an existential crisis and I’m just moody and awful.
“It’s supposed to be. Before your train pulled in, there was a hipster coffee truck parked across the street. They were making holiday-themed drinks for the passengers headed into the city. I got their last two gingerbread lattes before they closed up.”
“Where’s yours?”
“It was so good I finished it in about one minute flat. Say what you will about hipsters, but those suspender-wearing beardies really know how to pull an artisanal brew.”
“It looks weird for a latte,” I said, suspiciously eyeing the creamy dollop in the cup.
“Stop pouting and just try it. ‘Latte’ is a misnomer. It’s actually an ice-cream shake made with espresso mixed with some kind of vanilla ice cream, with bits of malted milk balls and candied ginger pieces mixed in.”
Sold! I dunked the cookie into the drink and then took a bite. “Oh my god! This is possibly the best drink I’ve ever had in my life.” I silently included in that calculation the one time I got drunk last year on peppermint schnapps, which tasted like a peppermint patty in a beverage. Heaven. This gingerbread latte was heaven, squared. “You’re the best, Mom.”
“Is that a smile I see on your face? It’s been a long time since I’ve seen it, so I’m not sure.”
I gulped down the remainder of the latte, not caring if the rush of the consumption would give me an ice-cream headache. I licked my lips. “Smiling!” I said. Add to my list of mental woes: My moods could swing violently from sulking to delirious with the right infusion of sugar.
Teenage hormones. I don’t know. They’re exhausting trying to monitor.
Mom said, “If I’d known all it took was a gingerbread latte, I’d have hunted down that coffee truck a long time ago.” She worriedly looked at the time on the car dashboard, and then her face turned serious. “So what’s going on, Lily? You’ve got my full attention until the 2:37. I’m worried about you.”
“I’m worried about me, too.”
She placed her hands over the car heater, and then pressed her warmed hands on my cold cheeks. They felt so good. “Tell me, sweetheart. Is this about Langston moving? Or Dad and me possibly moving up here? Or Grandpa? You understand that heart attack victims often get depressed and angry as they recover? He’s not himself anymore.”
“I’m upset about all that. But no.”
“So we’re not the center of your life anymore?” she asked gently.
“Not exactly,” I admitted.
“Ah,” said Mom. “Dashiell.”
Moms always know.
“I tried to break up with him. He said no!”
“Really? That’s a surprise.” I wasn’t sure if she was surprised I’d want to break up with him or that he’d refused me. “What did you say to him?”
“I said, ‘I think we should break up.’?”
“Doesn’t sound like a convincing breakup directive to me. What did Dash say to that?”
“He said no, and that I was getting everything wrong. But he didn’t say what exactly.”