The next day marks one week since I left Francis. Ruth takes me shopping after practice. They’re hosting a fund-raiser tomorrow night for a friend of theirs who also happens to be the junior senator from South Carolina. They apologized profusely and said they sent out invitations months ago and that they never would have planned it if they’d known I would be here. They said if it makes me uncomfortable to have a bunch of strangers in the house when everything is already so new for me here, to just say the word and they’d cancel it. I appreciated that, but told them I don’t mind. The fact that they’re so generous with their time and home and wealth—not just with me, but apparently with all sorts of people and causes—is one of the things I admire most about them.

And so now I need something nice to wear. The lavender jersey dress isn’t going to cut it this time.

“This shop is one of my absolute favorites,” Ruth says, pulling into a parking spot in a cute little downtown area. “The owner is a little funny, and normally I wouldn’t consider shopping here, but he has the best collection on the island, so what can you do?”

“Funny?” I ask. The way she says it, I don’t think she means he’s a comedian.

She gives me a look over the top of her designer sunglasses. “You know.”

“I don’t.” I mean, I do. I’m just a little surprised she’d say that.

She presses her lips together as if considering whether to explain, but then just shakes her head and opens the car door.

As soon as we enter the shop, salespeople descend upon us. “Hello, Mrs. Pembroke,” a young woman with her hair back in a perfect chignon and her feet crammed into stiletto heels says. She kisses Ruth on both cheeks. “Welcome back. May we bring you some sparkling water?”

“Yes, please, Nadia. With lemon. And one for my granddaughter as well.”

“Of course.” Nadia gestures to one of the other salesgirls, who scurries away to get the drinks.

“Nadia, this is Dara.”

Nadia takes both my hands and lifts my arms up to my sides, then steps back to study me. “She’s exquisite.”

“Isn’t she?” Ruth gushes.

“Um. Thank you,” I mumble. I’m not feeling particularly exquisite right now, with my post-shower wet hair and regular old clothes, next to the supermodels working in this store.

“Dara is going to need a cocktail dress for an event tomorrow evening. That’s priority number one. But I’d also love to set her up with a few basics. Tops, skirts, pants that fit her properly. If I have to see her in another pair of skintight leggings and a ratty tank top, there’s no telling what I might do!”

Ruth and Nadia share a laugh, and I feel my cheeks burning.

The other girl brings the water, and I sip it gratefully.

Nadia walks us through the store, pulling things off racks, holding them against me, asking my opinion. Sometimes I shake my head no way, but most of the time I just shrug. I don’t know anything about fashion. The fitting-room rack slowly becomes laden with hangers.

I’m relieved when it’s time to try everything on, because it means a few minutes alone behind a closed door.

When I’m modeling one of the dresses for them—a black-and-white, cinched-waist, knee-length thing that isn’t something I would have chosen for myself but is definitely better than the light-blue poofy thing I tried on last—a man comes over.

“That is lovely on you,” he says, and though it’s clear he works here—he’s in all black like the rest of the salespeople—he actually sounds genuine, not sales-y. He’s tall and thin, with perfectly trimmed facial hair. His shoes are very shiny.

Ruth turns around; he’s standing just behind her chair. “Hello, Derek,” she says, and her voice holds none of the warmth she bestowed on Nadia or even the other girl who seems to have no name.

“Hello, Mrs. Pembroke,” he says cordially. “So nice to see you again. And who is this fetching young lady?”

She doesn’t rush to introduce me like she usually does, and that’s when it clicks: This is the owner. The “funny” guy she doesn’t want to give her business to.

“This is Mrs. Pembroke’s granddaughter, Dara,” Nadia supplies.

“I didn’t know you had a granddaughter! Welcome, Dara!” He comes over to me and kisses me on both cheeks. Guess it’s store policy or something.

“You really think it looks okay?” I ask him, lifting the fabric of the skirt out to the side and studying myself in the mirror.

“Absolutely. It wouldn’t even need any alterations. What’s the occasion?”

“My grandparents are having a fund-raising dinner for a senator. Vernon McDougal, I think?” I look to Ruth. “Is that right?”

She lifts her chin. “Yes, that is correct. He’s a friend.”

Derek’s jaw tightens perceptibly, and his smile becomes just a bit more strained, but it doesn’t leave his face. “I see. Well, you’re sure to be the belle of the ball in this dress.” Another customer enters the store then, and he excuses himself.

I’m pretty sure something just happened here. And I’m certain I have no idea what it was.

“That’s your third miss,” Monique calls out from the other side of the net without breaking her serving stride. It’s the next morning, and I’m running up and down the baseline at top speed, hitting slice after slice. It’s an extreme defense move, the main goal being to simply keep the ball in play.

Three misses out of several dozen hits doesn’t seem that bad to me. Bob always said that it’s okay to miss sometimes—no one is perfect, and errors are part of the game. The more important thing is to learn how to recover, to not let the misses mess with your head and throw your entire game off course.

Monique has a different philosophy. She points out the things I do wrong far more than she compliments the things I do right. “You’re never going to be the best unless you act like the best,” she says, disappointed, hitting another ball.

My focus zeroes in even tighter. Run, breathe, slice. Run, breathe, slice.

I don’t miss again.

Ruth comes over as I’m packing up my gear. She’s already dressed for the party, even though it doesn’t begin for hours. “I just heard back from the travel agent,” she says. “Everything has been arranged. We leave for Charlottesville two weeks from today. She booked us a lovely suite at a historic inn with a terrace overlooking the gardens.”

“That sounds great! Thank you so much.” I bounce a little on the balls of my feet, riding a new wave of excitement. My worn-out calves aren’t happy about it, but I don’t care. In a matter of weeks I’ll be playing in my first professional tournament.

“What do you think, Monique?” Ruth says. “Is our girl ready?”

Monique looks at me appraisingly. “I think she’ll do fine.” After today’s critique session, I’ll take it.

On the walk back to the house, I ask Ruth if she would mind showing me Mellie and Celeste’s wedding album. We’ve both been so busy over the past couple days that there wasn’t really a good time to bring it up. But the catering vans in the driveway and the uniformed staff bustling around the property, bringing in glassware and hanging lights, make me think of what the Cherry Hill house must have been like on the day of the wedding.

“Is it important that you look at it today?” she asks, her tone clipped.

I shrug. “I guess not.”

Our footsteps seem to get louder in the silence that follows. I’m beginning to think it was the absolute wrong question to ask, or the absolute wrong time to ask it, when she sighs. “Yes, all right. Come, I’ll show you where it is.”

The album is in one of the many guest rooms I hadn’t yet stepped foot in, in a drawer at the base of a shelving unit. Not exactly prime real estate for such a valuable memento.

But when I go to take it from her, she holds it back.

“I want you to know,” she says, “that the only reason we kept this is because they’re some of the most recent pictures of Celeste that we have. She was happy and beautiful that day, and that’s how we choose to remember her.” I nod, but she keeps going. “Otherwise I would have burned this entire book long ago. I will never forgive him for convincing her that his … affliction was normal. He made a mockery of the affection she had for him. It makes me sick every time I think about it.”

I stare at her, my heart pounding in my ears. I’ve never heard Ruth speak like this before. The last time she spoke about this book it was with fondness. At least I thought it was. I knew she hated Mellie for taking me from them, and I knew they weren’t on board with Mellie being trans, but what she’s saying now is different. Deeper. And after the way she treated Derek at the store yesterday …

“Oh, also,” Ruth says, finally relinquishing the book. I hug it to my chest. “It’s best if we keep our … family history quiet tonight. The people coming to the dinner wouldn’t necessarily understand about Marcus’s … situation.”

Seems like you don’t understand, either, I think.

Things tilt a little in that moment. The family portrait in my head becomes singed at the edges. Could this be how Ruth and William felt all along, but they’re only starting to show it now that we’re getting more comfortable with each other? Now that I’m finally under their roof?

I think back to Mellie’s last email, the one where she came out to Celeste. The way she told it, it didn’t seem like she’d had to “convince” Celeste of anything. Mellie told her the truth, knowing it meant she might lose her, and Celeste stayed of her own volition. They were two adults who loved each other and made an agreement with each other, imperfect as it may have been.

I thank Ruth for the book, dodge the event staff and their armloads of tablecloths, and escape to the gazebo out back.

The album is packed with photos from the wedding of two people clearly in love. Celeste in her flowy white dress, walking down the aisle on the arm of her father. Marcus—Mellie—in her crisp tux. The bridesmaids, Catherine included, in pale pink. Ruth in mauve, dabbing the corner of her eye with a handkerchief. The canopy of flowers under which they recited their vows. A wedding-cake topper of a couple playing tennis. And a candid, intimate shot of Mellie and Celeste stealing a quiet moment to themselves while their friends and family dance the night away under the tent. They’re forehead-to-forehead, unaware of the camera, both of them cradling Celeste’s pregnant belly.

I don’t know if Mellie somehow sensed that I looked at that album today, or if she was just about to get to this part of the story anyway and it’s nothing more than coincidence. But her next email, which comes in as I’m getting ready for the party, hits me hard, punching right through a place that had already been worn thin.

To: acelove6@email.com

From: Mellie.Baker@email.com

June 27 (5:40 PM)

Subject: You

Dear Dara,

What I’m about to write is important. Everything I’ve written so far has been important, but what’s in this email is going to be crucial in answering some big questions for you. I’m scared to write it, though, because I don’t want you to take any of it the wrong way. I want you to know that you are the best thing that ever happened to me, and you were from the start. Even while you were still baking in Celeste’s belly. You have always been, and will always be, my everything. Please remember that as you read.

Okay, here goes.

Celeste getting pregnant was, like I said, the best thing that ever happened to me. But it was also the worst.

We hadn’t planned on it—we were in our early twenties, and Celeste was still in school. I’d recently qualified for the French Open—my first Grand Slam tournament—and was training nonstop. We weren’t even engaged yet. But despite it all, we were thrilled. I never knew you could want something so badly but not even know it until it happened.

I proposed to her, and we had a hurried but beautiful wedding at her parents’ house. I was overjoyed to know that I was going to get to be with her forever.

It didn’t take long, though, for darker feelings to work their way in. Celeste was getting to experience one of the most wonderful, miraculous parts of womanhood … and I never would, no matter what. I was consumed with sadness; it was like puberty all over again but times a thousand. I know it sounds selfish, but I was unable to look at it as simply being a “parent”—instead of “mother” or “father”—and all the wonderful things that come along with that, regardless of your gender. The pregnancy was a glaring reminder that even if I transitioned, I would never be part of this club. It was a reality I’d always known, but had been able to ignore. Now it was front and center, the pivot point around which our lives rotated.

As Celeste’s middle grew, and we heard the heartbeat and saw the sonogram pictures and chose a name and bought little onesies and booties and dresses, the ground beneath my feet crumbled.

The arrangement with Celeste was no longer enough. I was not okay. I saw now that our agreement had been a Band-Aid, and a flimsy one at that, not a sustainable fix. I don’t think the Band-Aid would have been ripped off quite so violently if not for the pregnancy, but it would have fallen off eventually.

Things got even worse when you were born. I was at once happy and indescribably sad. (Again, I beg of you, please do not read too much into this. It was not your fault, and I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.)

I couldn’t go on like this, drowning and grasping for a raft but unable to clamp my slippery, wet fingers around it. I came to understand that I was going to end up one of two ways: living as a woman or dead.

The choice felt impossible.

Transitioning would mean giving up Celeste—like she said, she wasn’t a lesbian. It would mean giving up tennis, because going through the process publicly wasn’t an option for me. There was no way I’d be able to endure what Renée Richards had; I wasn’t nearly that strong. It would mean admitting I hadn’t proved my parents wrong after all. It would mean being poor again, because I had virtually no job experience apart from tennis. It would mean an even shakier relationship with the world—I’d finally be on the raft, but it would be filled with holes.

But if I didn’t transition, and stayed living as I was, everything would fall apart anyway. Celeste was getting fed up with me—I was making things more difficult for her because now she had two of us to take care of—and I was distracted and unable to train. Either way, I was losing.

There was only one way out. After all these years, I was finally going to give in. I was convinced it would be so much easier for us all, you and Celeste included, if I ceased to exist anymore. I started to plan how I was going to do it, and began counting my remaining time in days, rather than months or years.

And then, six months after your birth, Celeste was hit by the drunk driver.

I thought I’d known pain before. I’d known nothing.

But suddenly I was a single parent. My parents had left me all alone, and I wasn’t going to do that to my daughter. You were my priority now—nothing else mattered.

I finally booked an appointment with a therapist, and she helped me understand that the only way you were going to be happy was if I was happy. And the only way I was going to be happy was if I at least tried to transition.

So that’s how I ended up on this road. I quickly realized that transitioning wasn’t merely a necessity—it was an opportunity. To consider who I really was, and who I wanted to be.

The first thing I did was quit tennis. My trainer was stunned. And very unhappy. I told him it was because I had a baby to take care of now, and that my life was headed in a different direction. Walking away from tennis was even harder than walking away from my family. This time, I was leaving something good behind. The last good thing in my life, besides you. The thing that had saved me when I didn’t know how to save myself. But every time regrets and doubt crept in, I reminded myself what I was getting in exchange.

My therapist referred me to a transgender support group, and I made friends who were on similar journeys—people who used feminine pronouns for me and didn’t question for one second that I was who I said I was. Kelly Ann, the woman I mentioned to you the other day, had transitioned in the late 1950s, well before the term transgender even existed. She was beautiful and wise and funny and had the most loveable “I don’t give a shit” attitude of anyone I’d ever met.

Equal parts excited, terrified, and absolutely clueless, I threw myself into cosmetic changes with the ferocity I’d previously reserved for tennis. If there was one thing I knew how to do, it was give something my all. It was nice to be able to transfer that instinct onto a new goal. It made this new journey feel just a little more comfortable—familiar, in a strange way—and made the absence of tennis in my life easier to swallow.

I grew the hair on my head out and shaved and plucked almost everything else—that part was pretty easy. I started wearing clothing designed for women—that part was not. I needed clothes that reflected my identity, but that didn’t look ridiculous. Wearing an ill-fitting, borrowed dress around the house with no one except the mirror watching me wasn’t going to cut it anymore. I didn’t feel comfortable trying clothes on in fitting rooms or asking for salespeople’s advice yet, so I ended up hastily breezing through stores, grabbing a few things off the racks, and buying them before anyone could ask me if I needed assistance. I’d try them on at home, only to be sorely disappointed each time I couldn’t get a top past my shoulders or a pair of jeans to fit both my waist and inseam.

It wasn’t only the sizes that were confusing. I’d spent years daydreaming about women’s fashion, only to find out it was a lot harder than I’d expected to settle into a style of my own. I couldn’t seem to figure out what was pretty and age-appropriate and fit me correctly. You hear a lot about adult trans women going through the stages of adolescence all over again after they transition—suddenly, we’re all that girl who desperately wants to fit in, but has no idea what to do with her body. We haven’t had time to figure it out like cis women our age have; we haven’t had a chance to make our mistakes yet. I leaped into the shiny lip gloss and sparkly, ruffly, teenybopper outfits blindly, because to me those things said “GIRL!” I ended up looking for all the world like Barbie’s kid sister with a few extra years under her belt.

I returned so many clothes to stores those first few months that I had to find new neighborhoods to shop in because the salespeople started to remember me and would groan every time they saw me coming. Eventually, I asked my new friends for help, and they gave me tips on the best makeup to hide stubble, and how to dress my body. I finally found a few pieces that worked: a flowy blouse with delicate blue flowers and buttons near the cuffs. A knee-length denim skirt. A pair of ankle boots with a two-inch heel. This was the first outfit I left the house in.

Keeping my head up as much as possible, I pushed your stroller three blocks to the grocery store, bought a few things—though I couldn’t have told you what they were, I was so in my own head—sat on a park bench for a little while watching the dogs play, and went home. We were only out for an hour, but the sense of accomplishment I felt would have been worthy of a climb to the peak of Mt. Everest.

It wasn’t perfect. I did get looks. I did hear whispers. A couple of parents ushered their kids across the street so they wouldn’t have to share a sidewalk with me. I’d thought transitioning would be easier if I wasn’t in the public eye anymore. What I didn’t anticipate was that it was of course completely obvious to anyone who looked at me what was going on. I didn’t have to be a tennis player to face ridicule.

But I didn’t give up. That fact, in and of itself, was reassurance I was doing the right thing.

I put my phone down for a second. I remember one day a few years ago, when Mom and I went to the mall to get some new school clothes. A group of kids was hanging out at the fountain, and as we walked past, we heard several of them harassing three teen girls in headscarves. Words like terrorist and deported. Clearly, they were parroting sentiments they’d heard on TV or at home. The girls were doing a fine job of standing up for themselves, but Mom didn’t keep walking.

She told me to hang on a minute, and went right up to the bullies and said, “Someday you’re going to be the one in the vulnerable position. You might be misunderstood or mistreated or targeted for who you are. And you’re going to look back on this moment or other moments when you treated your fellow human beings without compassion, and you’re going to be sorry. But by then it will be too late—you won’t have anyone left to help you. So, right now, why don’t you make the choice to add kindness to the world instead of hatred?”

The kids just gaped at her.

She asked the Muslim girls if they were all right. They told her they were. And then she and I went to the Gap.

We never talked about that moment. I never thought about where it may have come from. But now I see. She was the one who was bullied, whispered about, feared. Simply because of who she was.

I go back to the email.

Gradually, I became more comfortable. I learned to pay attention to the display mannequins and mimic how the window dressers had put ensembles together. I started to take note of the brands that fit me well, and I developed a light, even hand for makeup. The hormones I’d been taking softened my face some, and I began to develop my curves. More and more often, strangers would refer to me as “she” or “ma’am.” Each time it happened, a warm shot of adrenaline hit my heart.

I took a name. I’d been kicking a few possibilities around for a long time, but now it was time to decide. I sat you on my lap one morning after breakfast story time and asked, “What should Mama’s name be?” The question was more rhetorical than anything else. You were hardly a year old. The only words you knew were “cup” and “juice,” which was your universal name for all drinks. I just needed a sounding board, and you were my most captive listener.

But you looked up at me with those big blue eyes, the same as mine, giggled, and reached out to the picture book on the sofa next to us. It was open to a page that featured Mellie, the pink-haired wood fairy, your favorite character. Do you remember that book? I think we still have it, somewhere.

I knew you had no idea what I was talking about; you probably just wanted me to read the story for a third time. But the moment felt special, and the name felt right.

Mellie. It was the same beginning initial as my birth name, it was pretty and feminine but not too common, and it was a name you loved too.

I filed the paperwork quickly.

We had a party at the day care center for your first birthday. The parents and teachers had watched my evolution from the earliest stages, so they were less inclined to see me as a woman or call me by my chosen name. They were kind to my face, but I caught their stares and murmurs—I’m sure I provided them gossip fodder for a good two years. But I was feeling good now. Even with all the sadness in my life, I was happier than I’d ever been.

Shortly after your birthday, six months after walking away from tennis, I applied to nursing school. It was the only other thing I thought I could be happy doing. It reminded me of Joanna, and the doctor/nurse games we used to play with our dolls.

Hands shaking, I checked the box marked “female” on the application.

That’s all I’ll write for now. As always, call me if you want to talk. I love you.

Love,

Mom

She did it for me. The phrase is on a loop in my thoughts as I sit for the woman Ruth hired to do our makeup, as I request a cranberry juice and club soda from the bartender, as I stand by my grandparents’ side and say my “hellos” and “Pleasure to meet yous.” As I talk about tennis with guest after guest, because most of these people belong to clubs and have taken lessons.

She did it for me.

So she could be able to give me a good life.

The way she described making that choice, the choice that wasn’t a choice at all, and how she started out terrified and not knowing what to do …

I’m beginning to think I might not know as much about this stuff as I thought I did.

I think back to Sam’s and my beer-fueled conversation, when he asked me how much I really knew about transgender stuff, and I brushed him off. And then later, when he corrected my terminology and told me he’d been reading about it.

Something Mellie wrote comes back to me now too: Google knows all.

Ruth hurries to my side. The women I’m standing with are talking about which universities their children are hoping to attend—and some of these kids are still in elementary school. “Excuse us for a moment,” Ruth says to the ladies. “I’d like to introduce Dara to the senator.” The women smile approvingly. I’m just glad for an excuse to get away from this conversation.

I follow my grandmother across the room to where William is chatting with a man in a crisp blue suit and red tie. This close, his hair appears to be dyed black, but there’s still a bit of gray at his temples. I wonder if he does that purposely to look distinguished.

“Vernon, this is our granddaughter, Dara,” William tells the man. “She just graduated from high school and is about to play in her first professional tennis tournament. Dara, this is Senator Vernon McDougal, US senator from the great state of South Carolina.”

They toast to that, and Vernon says something generic, at which I smile and nod equally as generically, but internally I’m rolling my eyes at William’s sudden loyalty to a state he’s only lived in for two years.

“You’re very lucky to have such wonderful people as grandparents, Dara,” Vernon says. “In the short time we’ve known one another, we’ve become great friends.”

“Yes, they’ve been incredibly generous and welcoming,” I say, thinking that’s a pretty neutral response until I catch Ruth’s glare and remember I’m not supposed to say anything that would tip off that we haven’t actually always known each other. “How did you all meet?” I ask, redirecting.

“Oh, I believe it was at an event similar to this one, is that right, Ruth?”

“Yes, it was last year at the Cantons’ dinner. We got to talking politics, as usually happens at these things, and hit it off immediately.”

I smile and nod again. I’m beginning to feel like a robot. But I don’t know what else to contribute. “Do you know if dinner will be starting soon?” I ask my grandmother.

She checks her watch. “Yes, I’ll have the caterers begin transitioning everyone to the main dining room in about ten minutes. Why, are you very hungry?” She seems concerned.

“Oh, no, I’m fine. Just wondering.” Wondering if I have time to get away from the party and go online for a few minutes.

Someone else comes over to introduce himself to the senator, so I use that as an excuse to slip away. I don’t think I could get away with going all the way up to my room, so I decide on the bathroom at the other end of the first floor, by William’s home office, the one Ruth told the caterers to use.

I lock the door behind me, flip the toilet lid down to create a seat, and take my phone from the clutch bag Ruth insisted I carry even though we’re at home.

What do I search for?

I try What it’s like to be transgender.

The screen fills with results—support groups, personal blogs, psychological studies, podcasts, medical journals, interviews in major publications—and I vow to never take modern technology for granted ever again. I can’t imagine what it was like for Mom, having to navigate her way with only a few random library books, some old-school online forums, and her own thoughts to get her by.

I click on links randomly, trying to read as much as I can before having to sit through dinner with a bunch of strangers. I don’t know why I suddenly feel like I have to learn everything right this second. I didn’t give it much thought before now, and obviously, the information will still be there tonight, tomorrow, forever. There’s time. But for some reason it feels important.

There are an estimated 1.4 million transgender people living in America today.

Gender dysphoria is not considered a disorder.

Not all transgender people have surgery.

Transgender = a term for those whose gender identity differs from that which they were assigned at birth.

Transsexual = a term for those who have changed, or intend to change, their bodies through surgery and/or hormones. This term is considered outdated and has largely fallen out of use.

Forty-one percent of transgender and gender nonconforming people have attempted suicide, compared with a 4.6 percent national average.

Most states do not have laws ensuring job protection or protection against discrimination in the workplace for transgender people, and as a result many turn to sex work as their only option.

White trans people often receive more support, representation, and benefits, and are at a lesser risk of violence, than trans people of color, especially black trans women.

The statistics and facts roll through my brain, and I try to grasp on to them. But it’s when I read a quote from someone’s blog that I stop reading, and just sit and think.

I think well-meaning cis people often have difficulty understanding, the blogger wrote, because they try to frame it from their own point of view. They think, What would I, Jennifer, feel like if I wanted to be a man? They don’t think of it as fact—an “I am” statement instead of a “what if” statement. They don’t take themselves out of the equation long enough to consider how trans people are so often mistaken for something they’re not. They’re mistaken for Jennifer, a woman, when Jennifer is actually a man. But because everyone assumes Jennifer is a woman, he’s told he has to pretend to be one.

And I think, maybe, that’s what it comes down to. Not trying to make sense of it in relation to my own life, but instead just really listening. Really trying to understand what Mom’s telling me. I’m not sure I’ve done such a great job of that lately.

But even now that I’m starting to better understand her as a transgender person, and better understand her as a parent, and even better understand why she might not have felt comfortable around the Pembrokes, I can’t quiet the part of me that still doesn’t understand why she thought her only other option was a life of hiding. Why would she go to such an extreme?

Something is still missing.

I check my email again. We’ve got to almost be at the end of the story.

Zero new emails.

I stand up, smooth my dress, and splash cold water on the back of my neck. It’s been a lot longer than ten minutes. Ruth is probably looking for me.

I wonder what Sam’s doing. He’s got to be home by now.

Quickly, before I lose my nerve, I send a new text message.

I’m sorry.

A few seconds later, he responds. Me too. I shouldn’t have left like that.

Only after the words appear on the screen do I realize how scared I was that he wouldn’t write back. That I messed things up forever.

No, you should have. I was being a jerk.

Only a little bit. And then: I miss you.

I miss you too. I think about asking if he went back to Sarah. For all I know they could be together right now. But if they are, I don’t want to know.

On my way back to the dining room, I take a selfie. Expensive party dress, fancy makeup job, and behind it all, far more miserable than someone who has everything she’s ever wanted has a right to be.

Wish you were here, I type, and send it.

You look like shit, he replies.

It’s the only thing that could have gotten me to laugh right now.

As the weird, illogical smile warms my face beneath the makeup, it hits me that Sam has always been the one to make me feel better. No matter what’s going on or where we are … or if we’re at the tail end of the biggest fight of our lives. I’m not myself without him.

I take another photo, still laughing. I send it.

His response comes immediately. Beautiful.

You make me happy, I write back.

Right back at ya, he says.

When I walk into the dining room, I’m grinning from ear to ear.