I should have seen this coming. I’m in love with Alex. This isn’t a crush. This isn’t my normal, anxiety-prone obsession. This isn’t lust. I mean, it’s not only lust.
I love him.
This should be an overwhelming discovery. A breathtaking adventure. A remarkable revelation. But it’s not.
The psychic child told me I could get through with love. Well, here I am in love, but it’s not getting me to the next day.
Frustration is my constant companion. It itches at me, pokes me in the sides, stabs me in the heart. It never stops.
Time passes, and I’m still in love, and I’m still stuck on Monday, June seventh.
Love is not all rainbows and flowers and unicorns.
It’s agonizing. Hellish. Horrific.
I love someone and can never be with him. Not really. There is no happily ever after. There isn’t even a tomorrow.
My heart, the blasted overreacting organ, it’s broken. Hurting. My chest aches. How is this even a thing?
Grasping for something, anything positive about this situation, I make a list.
Maybe I should just be happy he likes me. Great. He’ll never move beyond like.
I can get to know him a little better every day, but I can’t have those future moments, the little quirks and foibles that only come out when you’ve known someone forever and are truly comfortable because they know you too.
I want to know if he squeezes the toothpaste from the bottom. I want to know if he’s cranky when he’s sick. I want to do boring things with him, like sit on the couch after a long day and watch movies. I want our own secret language, a lexicon of words and gestures that only we understand. I want to have entire conversation with a single look—one that isn’t one-sided because I’m the only one who knows we’ve discussed something before a hundred times.
With Alex, I can have an endless string of these same twenty-four hours, but it’s not enough. It’s a slog every time to get to the ever-briefer moments of new, shiny stuff. I want it all to be brand new. I want all the hours. I want all the days. I want a future, the highs and lows and everything in between.
Maybe I’m selfish.
How many people out there would love an endless day with their person?
But even trying to hold on to gratitude doesn’t stop the hurt. He will never love me back. He can’t.
He won’t ever have the time to get to know me and fall in love with me. I have all this time with him, but for him, it’s just one day.
This is the worst unrequited love ever, because even if he likes me a lot, there’s no path forward.
My natural proclivity for avoidance returns with a fiery hot vengeance. If I stay isolated, I can’t be hurt. But I’m already hurt, so that doesn’t even make sense. More hurt. I can’t be more hurt.
I leave the apartment each day only to give Hugo his outfit—I can’t totally let him down. Even if it doesn’t fix everything, I’m not a monster.
I also try to find the Druid’s Stone, again, so I can tell the teenage psychic she’s wrong. I’m in love and I’m still here and she’s full of shit. But I don’t get the satisfaction because it’s still gone. It’s like it never existed. I even ask the lady working in the Thai food place next door, but she shakes her head and smiles and feeds me curry puffs.
I’m home every day at 3:07 when Eloise sticks the note under the door. Every day, when she doesn’t bother to knock and just slips me a note.
Alex said I was brave, and yet I’m still not facing the music with Eloise. Or anyone or anything else right now.
Was he wrong about me? Maybe he only thinks he likes me, or he likes some false version of me, and if the days move forward and he discovers what a true coward I am, his feelings will change.
I can’t have that. I will face this final hurdle, but not for Alex. For me.
Eloise was . . . is my closest friend. Even though we are nothing alike, and we fight sometimes, we’ve always had each other’s backs.
Until we didn’t.
We moved to the West Coast together five years ago. We lived together, shared an apartment. But then Eloise was going to LA all the time for auditions and eventually moved down there. Then she got her big break, a starring role in a Netflix dramedy.
Everything changed. She stopped calling. Stopped texting. Our conversations went from daily to weekly to once a month. But I just wrote it off. She was busy. Too busy for me, and I got it. I was fine with it, or I thought I was. I had other things to worry about too. And she would come up and visit during breaks in production and regale me with all kinds of funny stories. She was so happy. So successful.
I wasn’t. But I pretended I was.
Then she called me on it.
“Are you sure you’re happy here?” she asked the last time we spoke. We were in my apartment, eating Chinese takeout and watching Grey’s Anatomy.
I grabbed the last crab rangoon from the box. “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Her tone was soft, but her gaze was pitying. “I don’t know. The job at Blue Wave sounds fine, it just doesn’t seem like . . . you.”
“Why not? What’s wrong with me?” Defensiveness sent the pitch of my voice three octaves higher.
Eloise’s voice was calm. Sensible. “There’s nothing wrong with you. That’s not what I’m saying.”
Her self-assuredness in the face of my own self-doubt was like a lance to the gut. So naturally, I lashed out. “What about you?”
She blinked rapidly. “What about me?”
I put my chopsticks and takeout container back on the coffee table. “You have no idea what’s going on in my life. You never return my calls. I feel like a celebrity stalker or something.”
“I know, and I’m sorry. It’s so busy in LA. Work is insane.”
My jaw clenched. This is always her excuse. Too busy, too important, too famous for her poor older sister, the loser. “You say you don’t have time to call, but I know you have time to brunch with friends at the Ivy.”
“Jane, I’ve invited you down to visit so many times.” She leaned forward, eyes earnest. “You can come anytime and stay with me and meet my friends. But you don’t. You always have excuses. I’m the one who always comes up here to visit, never the other way around. It’s a two-way street.”
I shook my head. “You know why I don’t come.”
Her hands flipped into the air. “You can’t let anxiety turn you into a hermit. I can’t be your only person. You need more people and to put herself out there. It’s scary but it’s worth it.”
I stood, picking up the empty food cartons to throw in the trash, walking away from her. “You don’t understand. It’s easy for you.”
“You don’t even try!” she yelled at my back.
I spun around. “You know what, I get enough criticism from Mom. I don’t need it from you too. You’re just like her.”
When the words flew out of my mouth, I wished I could snatch them back and swallow them. But it was too late. It was already out there. I’d compared her to Mom. Probably the biggest insult I could have flung at her.
She stared, her mouth gaping open. It took her a minute to speak. Maybe she was waiting for me to take it back, to apologize. I should have. But I didn’t.
“Maybe I should leave,” she finally said.
“Maybe you should.”
I should have apologized, but I was ashamed. She was right to be angry.
But now, she’s back and she’s trying and it’s time for me to try too.
And I know exactly when to catch her in the act.
It’s time to come clean. Put it behind us. I miss my sister. She’s basically my only friend and I totally shoved her out of my life.
I swing open the door right as she’s digging in her purse, probably for a pen and paper. “Eloise.”
“You’re home.” Her perfectly manicured brows lift in surprise. She’s wearing dark orange, wide-leg pants, a top that’s cinched at the waist and a cute little denim jacket. It looks perfect on her, but would make me look like an Oompa-Loompa. After a pause, she steps into me, enveloping me in a hug that smells like vanilla and sunshine and home.
A wave of nostalgia crashes over me.
We used to be close, a united force against the stalwart force of our mother. A team.
She steps back. “I thought you’d be at work.”
So that’s why she’s coming over in the middle of the day and not bothering to knock. To leave me a note when she knows I’m not home.
But why bother?
I clasp my hands in front of me. I need to ask. To push through this.
I can’t control anything she feels, says, or does, but I can control my part in our relationship.
“Do you want some tea or something?”
She nods. “Yes. Please.”
I move into the kitchen. She shuts the door behind her, clutching a small vintage purse in her hands.
I turn on the electric kettle on the counter and grab some mugs and tea bags from the cupboard.
Eloise stands in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, her eyes following me.
“Darjeeling okay?” I ask over my shoulder.
“Yes. Thank you.”
“You can sit down.”
She nods, blonde head jerking up and down, and then disappears into the living room.
The kettle heats. I bring the cups over to where she’s perched on the corner of my couch like she’s scared to relax.
I sit next to her. “I’m glad you came over.”
She turns, angling her body in my direction. “You are?”
And then I tell her something I should have said a long time ago. “I need to apologize.”
She blinks. “You do?”
“I know we haven’t been close in a long time, and it’s mostly my fault.” My voice is only slightly tremulous as I speak. But it’s not with worry. It’s with relief.
Her mouth pops open.
I continue. The only way out is through. “The truth is that I’ve been jealous.”
She makes a strangled sound, coughing, and then puts her mug on the coffee table. She takes a breath and then meets my gaze. “Jane, you have no reason to be jealous of me. And I’m the one that should be apologizing. I was pushy and overbearing, I was . . . Mom.” She grimaces. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to not be our mom.”
I laugh. “Me too. You aren’t Mom. And you were right, but I wasn’t ready to hear it.”
She shakes her head. “No. I wasn’t right. You can do whatever you want. It’s not my place to tell you how to live your life.”
I put my mug down next to hers. “You didn’t. You want me to be happy and I wasn’t. But I wasn’t in the right place to hear it. It has nothing to do with you and everything to do with my own weaknesses.”
“Jane, you’re not—”
I hold up a stalling hand. “It’s okay. I could never measure up to you. Mom is always comparing my accomplishments to yours.” I wince. “Such as they are. You’ve always been the outgoing and vivacious one. I was the shy loner. And that’s not your fault. I thought I could be impressive. I tried to fit myself into a round hole, but I’m a square peg.” I shake my head. “No, it’s worse. I’m an octagon. Or a rhombus.”
She laughs but then taps me on the arm. “There’s nothing wrong with being a rhombus. I’m the one who should apologize. You were right. I wasn’t making time for you. I was avoiding you first, and it’s because I was ashamed.”
“Ashamed of what?”
Her eyes shift to her lap. “I haven’t been honest with you. I didn’t think you were happy, but the truth is, I was the one that was miserable. I was projecting my problems onto you and once I realized that, I had to come here and tell you. I thought I could just leave a note and then put the ball in your court, so to speak.”
She twists her hands in her lap, a move I’m familiar with. I put my hand over hers. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know. I wish we had talked sooner. I know you think my life is great, and our parents are proud, but nothing could be farther from the truth. I’m not as successful as you think. And our parents . . . Mom won’t even talk to me right now.”
Shock blows through me. “What? Why?”
“You know how critical they were when I started auditioning. ‘It’s not a real job.’ ” She says the last words in a dead-on impression of Mom, then rolls her eyes.
“Yeah, but you proved them wrong.”
“So we thought. Mom still wanted me to have a fallback plan, and she wasn’t wrong, and that’s why I applied to Stanford. But now, the truth is . . . I’m failing.”
I blink and sit back on the couch. “What?”
“I sort of stopped going to classes and didn’t tell anyone.”
I stare at her in stunned silence.
“I know!” she wails, covering her face with her hands. “I couldn’t face it. I didn’t want to do it. I hated every second of every class. It’s not what I want to do, and I only went because it was expected. Who gets accepted to Stanford and just, doesn’t go? Me, that’s who. And then when you were telling me about applying for the promotion at your work, I was upset and jealous and I feel like a failure.”
“You’re not a failure. You’re . . . famous.”
She snorts. “Except I’m never going to act again.”
“Why not?”
“Malcom broke up with me.”
“Oh, gosh. I’m sorry, Eloise, but what does Malcom breaking up with you have to do with finding acting jobs?”
She lifts a brow. “He slept with Amanda Robbins.”
“Isn’t she . . . ?”
“She plays my sister on the show.” She blows out a breath. “He had me written off. Then he spread stories about me acting erratically and that I’m a compulsive liar. It was a total smear campaign, so if I try tell the real story of how he cheated, he can push back by saying I’m a jealous liar.” She wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. “I’m not going back when filming starts again. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I failed school. I failed at acting. I have nothing left. And then I fought with you and it was mostly because I was trying to hide my own problems.”
I grab a tissue from the side table and hand it to her, scooting closer on the couch. “You haven’t failed. You can still try. You can find other acting jobs, no problem. You’re a great actress.”
She smiles weakly and takes the tissue, dabbing her eyes with it. “Thanks, but I don’t know. The industry is brutal. I might have burned bridges.”
“You only fail if you stop trying. You never know what’s out there. Next week there will be some other scandal and people will forget. Besides, Hollywood loves a good comeback story.”
She nods and we sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes, both processing. My sister, who I’ve been avoiding for months, all because I was ashamed and comparing myself to her, has been doing the same thing.
Even people who seem perfect on the outside have their own burdens to bear. We were both masking our true feelings and perceived failures, only to seem better than we were, or stronger. But is it stronger to hide and deny scary truths? Or is this, the unmasking and revealing of our personal disasters . . . is this the definition of bravery?
Is it because our parents are always putting pressure on us to be strong and smart and perfect? Or can we even blame them, when we’re our own worst enemies?
All this time I’ve been trying to measure up to everyone else, when what I needed was to measure up to myself.
I blow out a breath. “I’ve been working at Blue Wave for four years and I’m still a junior associate. Most people are only junior associates for a year. I think I set some kind of record.” I smile grimly, and then sigh and shut my eyes. “I avoided going to LA to see you because I was scared. I didn’t want to disappoint you in front of your friends, make a fool of myself. After you moved out, I had no reason to keep trying. I let my anxiety get to the point where it limited my life. I’ve been lying to everyone, but not as much as I’ve been lying to myself. You were right about everything you said. And I got fired today, so there’s that. We can be failures together.”
She throws her arms around me, hugging me and shaking me in equal measure. “You’re not a failure.” She pushes me back, hands on my shoulders. “You can get a new, better job. I know it.”
I nod. “So basically, we were both jealous of each other, dealing with our own shame, and blaming each other for it.”
She laughs. “I guess that’s an accurate summary.”
We smile at each other for a few seconds and it’s like the weight of the Golden Gate Bridge has been lifted off my chest. “Let’s get some good food. And wine. Can you stay for a little bit?”
She grins. “I can stay for a little while.”
We get takeout from the Elephant Bar and sit in my living room on the floor, eating and talking about nothing and everything.
“Do you still make time for sewing?” Eloise asks, after we finish gorging ourselves on Korean beef tacos.
I take a deep breath. “If I show you something, do you promise not to laugh?”
Her brows lift. “Of course.”
I stand up, getting items I’ve been saving in the magic closet, and toss the bundle in front of her on the floor.
“Jane.” Eloise riffles through some of the finished work, holding up some of the gowns to inspect. “This is gorgeous. What did you make this for? Or who, I guess.”
“Drag queens.”
She stares at me, openmouthed. Then she grins. “No freaking way. That’s amazing. Tell me how this happened.”
I give her an extremely abbreviated version of events, having to omit the fact that I just met Hugo today. And it’s not lying, for me it’s been much longer than a day.
“Will you design a dress for me? Maybe not this extravagant. Maybe a classic design, but colorful instead of the requisite black. I hate black. I blame Mom. I mean, I don’t know if I’m ever going to a red-carpet event again, but I’d like to think someday I will.”
“You will. Eloise.” I put my hand over hers. “I would love to make you a dress.”
One she’ll never actually get to wear until I can get Tuesday to happen. I shove the thought away. Dwelling won’t help.
Eloise’s phone trills with a call, the ringtone emanating from somewhere under the pile of fabric.
She delves into the stack and recovers it from under a purple strapless ballgown. She glances down at the screen and then meets my eyes with a wince. “It’s Mom. Should I answer?”
“What? Is that even a real question? Do you hate good times and being happy?”
She smiles and shakes her head. “She’s been calling me every day for the past week and I’ve been avoiding her.” Her eyes search mine and then her brows lift. “Maybe we should talk to her together?”
My mouth twists. “Um, no?”
She shifts toward me. “Come on, Jane. We can come clean, get it over with, tell her the truth about our situations, as a team. We can support each other and maybe . . . maybe it will help.”
We stare at each other, the phone continuing to ring between us.
“Do you not have voicemail set up?”
She rolls her eyes.
I bite my lip.
She’s right. This is one more scary thing I need to face. And the only way out is through.
“Okay.” I roll my hand. “Let’s do it. Quick, like a Band-Aid.”
She nods and answers the call, putting it on speaker and holding the phone between us.
“Oh, interesting.” Mom’s voice is a sarcastic whip, lashing the room before Eloise can even say hello. “You can answer the phone. I wasn’t sure if it had been turned off for nonpayment or if you had forgotten how to use the device.”
Eloise and I lock gazes. She rolls her eyes and I stifle a giggle. She’s right. It is easier when I’m not the only one on the receiving end of a verbal flogging.
“Hello, Mother. It’s nice to hear from you. How are you doing?”
“That’s very cute, Eloise, but we need to talk about Stanford.”
Cutting right to the chase, right where it bleeds.
Eloise swallows and I take her free hand. The laughter in our eyes dies. Both of our palms are clammy, but it doesn’t matter.
“I’m not going back. I’m dropping out.” Her eyes widen at me, like she’s surprised herself, and then her gaze dips to the phone.
The silence is deafening.
Eloise points at me, asking permission, and I nod.
“Jane is here with me too. She has something to say.”
I take a breath and hold it for a second and then the words roll out. “I lost my job. I’m going to do something else, but I’m not sure what that is yet.”
I’ve barely finished the sentence when she starts speaking. “I would say I’m surprised, but I’m not. You girls always did need a strong hand at your back to keep from quitting things. Good thing I’m here to keep you from making mistakes.”
I blink. But mistakes are how you learn.
“I’ll speak slowly so you both can understand.” Her words are crisp and enunciated with care. “The solutions here are simple. Eloise, you will go back to Stanford and try again next term. Jane, you need to start looking for a decent job. I have some friends I can call.”
Did she even hear what I said?
Eloise shakes her head. “No, Mom, I won’t.”
“And neither will I,” I add. “You can’t tell us what to do. We aren’t puppets for you to manipulate however you think is best. We’re your daughters. And we’re adults. If you can’t support our choices, even if they’re mistakes, maybe we shouldn’t talk anymore.”
“I’m your mother. I only want what’s best for you. Sometimes you can’t see it, but that’s what I’m here for. What I’ve always been here for since I brought you two into this world. You can’t just throw away everything I’ve worked so hard to give you.”
Here it is, the guilt trip. She gave us life and now we owe her all of it.
“Actually, we can do what we want. What you want isn’t what’s best. How many times have we told you we’re miserable? But you’re not listening. You’re too busy directing. I can’t speak for Eloise. For me, I would love to have a relationship with you, Mom, but it has to be a healthy one. And this isn’t.”
More silence. I wish I could see her reaction, but at the same time I’m glad I can’t.
“I agree,” Eloise says. After more silence, she adds, “Maybe we could do family therapy.” She shrugs at me.
I shake my head back and forth so hard it’ll fall off in a minute.
There’s a click and silence on the other end. The call on Eloise’s phone drops off the screen.
She stares down at the blank screen. “She . . . she hung up on us.”
I nod. “I think it went well.”
A small pause and then Eloise bursts out laughing, falling over onto her back on the floor.
Once the laughter subsides, Eloise wipes her eyes. “Do you think we did the right thing?”
“Having regrets already?”
She snorts. “Always.”
“No regrets. Yes, she’s our mother. Yes, she raised us but that doesn’t give her the right to our sanity or happiness for all eternity.”
She nods. “You’re right. I’m glad we’re at least in this together.”
I smile. “Me too.”
By the time Eloise leaves, it’s the middle of the night. I shut the door behind her, promising to call her tomorrow. Ha.
I get into bed and listen to Hugo’s muffled sobs and contemplate everything.
What would make me happiest? How can I live as my truest self? Everything else is irrelevant. Which sounds selfish, but it’s not. I can’t help anyone else until I help myself.
I can’t make my bosses like me.
I can’t fix Hugo.
I can’t live an entire relationship with Alex in the same twenty-four hours.
I can’t force time to push on.
I had no idea what was happening with Eloise, and I can’t fix her life for her now that I do.
And so. I have to let it go. Really let it go. Not like I did with Alex when we played hooky, a temporary reprieve from reality.
If I’m going to live the same day over and over with no control over the forward movement of time or anything else, then I’m damn well making sure it’s the best day I can have.
I kept thinking if I held on tight, manipulated the things that happened around me, maneuvered the people around me, if I controlled everything, it would make me happy, but it doesn’t work that way.
Look at Eloise. Or Mark. Or anyone, really. You can seem like you have everything, be perfect on the outside, and still be miserable on the inside. Perception is everything and nothing at all.
It’s time to let go of what my parents want, what other people think I want, and figure out what I want. I can wear the expectations of everyone around me like a costume, like keeping it wrapped around me will give me happiness, but the opposite is true.
It’s time to surrender. To let go of everything, including thinking I can do something to change this day. Instead of trying to control it, I should just enjoy it.