The next afternoon, I get my coffee from Starbucks at the Commons instead of The Broken Crown. The vanilla syrup in my iced latte isn’t as sweet as the pure vanilla Jill uses, and it didn’t come with a hug.
I find a seat at a table outside and try to get comfortable, but the air is thick with humidity and beads of sweat are already dripping down the sides of my glass. What I wouldn’t give to be sitting on the Crown’s porch enjoying the slow whirl of the fan overhead and the breeze drifting up from the ocean.
This is ridiculous.
She has to forgive me—she must know it wasn’t personal. At least, I didn’t mean it to be. The irony of it all is that she’s the one person I wish I could call and talk to about how upset and hurt I am.
I sigh and look at the people seated around me, reminders that I’m alone. A sweet elderly couple are bickering in the corner about who’s going to take the last bite of their pound cake. At the table next to them, two women around my age have their heads bent together, gossiping.
The last table is occupied with a woman older than me and her daughter, who looks at least six years younger than CeCe. I notice the mother doesn’t have a wedding ring on her finger, and I wish I were brave enough to ask her for advice. In return, I would tell her not to blink because before she knows it, her daughter will be grown up. It will be too late.
I glance down at my phone, disappointed to see it’s only been about five minutes since I sat down. Dolly is at the house giving Tommy a sponge bath. She practically shooed me away, told me to stay gone for at least an hour. It would be good for me, she said.
As much as I was dreading having hospice nurses in the house, it really has been nice. I know Tommy is their patient, but they’ve made me feel better, too.
I look back down at my phone.
This has got to stop—if I’ve learned anything from this whole experience, it’s that life is too damn short to stay mad at the people we love. And Jill may not realize it right now, but she loves me.
I’m a little surprised to see her number still at the top of my “recently called” list. It’s only been a day, but it feels like weeks. I push her number and the phone rings.
Once. Twice. Three times.
I squint at the screen to see if I accidentally hit the wrong number. But it’s hers.
Four rings.
Five.
Six.
I hang up before her voicemail picks up, feeling more rejected than I have since Lionel Chavez took me to the eighth grade dance and spent the whole time dancing with another girl.
Even if Jill does calls back, I’m not sure I’d answer. It’s not like I’m desperate. I have other friends. I have Becky.
Becky.
I have to find her name in the contacts app, proof that it’s been too long since we’ve talked. She answers on the first ring. “Buttercup, how are you?”
“Not great,” I admit. She inhales a quick breath that echoes in my ear. “It’s not Tommy, he’s fine. Well, as fine as he can be.”
“Thank goodness,” she says. “Hold on a sec.” In the background, I hear the murmur of conversation. I didn’t think about the fact she’d be at work, holding down the fort since I left her to deal with everything alone. Just another in the long line of people I’m letting down these days.
“Sorry, I’m back. Tell me what’s going on?”
“My life is falling apart.”
“Oh, sweet pea,” she says. “I wish I could do something. What can I do?”
“Nothing.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
Becky sighs, and I can imagine what she’s thinking: Then why the hell did you call me?
“You’ll feel better if you do,” she suggests. Normally, she’d be right. But this isn’t like the things we usually talk about. I’m not stressed because of a client or feeling guilty for missing another important event in CeCe’s life. “Try me.”
“Tommy’s ex is everywhere I go—she looks even more beautiful in person, and CeCe found out about her, she knows everything. And Monica said she could get her a part in The Seasiders, but then backed out.”
“Whoa,” Becky says when I stop to take a breath.
“But that’s not the worst part. I came home the other day and found CeCe making out with Jill’s son, Beau.”
“Hot damn!” Becky laughs. “Way to go, Ceese.”
“Way to go?” I should have known better than to think Becky would understand. “She’s fourteen.”
“I was eleven when I had my first kiss—and didn’t she already smooch that Romeo?”
“You don’t get it.”
“Believe it or not, I do, lovey. Everything is changing with Tommy, and I’m sure you’re wishing at least one thing could stay the same, or at least be easy.”
My shoulders drop as some of the tension I’ve been carrying around dissipates. “When’d you get to be so smart?”
“I may not have raised a teenage girl, but some people—present company included—have said that I still act like one at times.”
“Touché.” I smile, realizing Becky should have been my first call from the start.
“Did Jill freak out, too?”
My smile fades. “Not exactly.”
“What did you do?” I can hear the hint of a laugh in Becky’s voice through the phone.
“What makes you think I did something?” One of the gossiping ladies shoots daggers in my direction before whispering something to her friend. I didn’t mean for my voice to get that loud, but we’re outside—not in a damn library. Still, I hush my voice. “I mean, I did, but why’d you think that?”
Becky laughs. “I miss you.”
“I miss you, too, but that’s beside the point.”
“I remember reading something once—if you have a boy, you only have to worry about one penis. If you have a girl, you have to worry about all the penises.”
“See? I’m right.”
“Yes and no,” Becky says. From her tone, I can tell she’s treading carefully. “It’s not just any boy, it’s Beau.”
“You’ve never met him,” I remind her. I’ve been trying to get Becky to come down with us for years, but she always has an excuse—usually some guy she just started dating. “You should see all the girls on his Instagram.”
“What if they’re his friends? In my dating experience—and you know, I’ve had a lot of it—some of the best guys have more girl friends than guy friends.”
“These aren’t the friend kind of girls. The bathing suits they wear barely cover anything.”
Becky laughs. “They’re teenage girls who live on the beach. And it probably says more about them than him.”
“If it were anyone else, I might see your point,” I tell her. “But he’s a player, just like his dad.”
“He’s a fifteen-year-old boy,” Becky says. “And he can’t be that bad if he’s got some Jill in him, too.”
“That’s pretty much what she said,” I tell Becky, remembering the cold, hard look on Jill’s face. “But—”
Becky cuts me off. “No buts, buttercup. CeCe’s her own person, and she’s going to make a lot of choices in her life. Some that you’re really not going to like. In the long run, this isn’t that big of a deal. Plus . . . never mind.”
“What? You can say it.” I take a sip of my watered-down latte and try to brace myself.
“It’s just that, I know you’re losing the love of your life, but she’s losing her dad.” My eyes well up and I nod, even though she can’t see me. “Life is hard enough when you’re an awkward teenager without all this going on. So let her have a little fun. I’m sure she can use the distraction.”
I nod again.
“You still there?”
“Yeah.” I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and shift the phone to my other ear.
“Aren’t you going to ask me how I got so smart again?”
I laugh. “I really do miss you.”
“Duh,” Becky says. “Now go make things right with Jill.”
“Yes, boss.”
“I love you,” she says, which starts the waterworks again.
“I love you, too.”
I hang up feeling better than I have since I had my big idea yesterday. I didn’t even think to tell Becky about it. I’ll call her back and fill her in soon, provided I can pull it off alone since Jill clearly won’t be helping me.
She still hasn’t called me back, not that I can blame her. I’m the one who owes her the apology; I should be doing the calling. I tap her name to call again. My breath catches when I hear her voice.
“Hi,” she says.
“I am so—”
“It’s Jill, and I can’t get to the phone right now, so leave a message. Or better yet, send me a text.”
My face falls and I hang up without leaving a message. I won’t send her a text in case that feels too pushy or needy. Even though I really do need her.
I rest my head in my hands and focus on my breathing. It helps, but not as much as a conversation with Jill would.
I look up as the older couple walk by, holding hands on their way out. The woman stops by my table and reaches into her purse, handing me a Kleenex. She doesn’t say anything, just smiles and keeps walking.
After using the tissue to wipe my eyes, I make a quick stop in Sephora to fix my makeup so Tommy won’t be able to tell I’ve been crying.
He’s got enough on his plate without having to worry about me.