She goes, “So sorry, Hen.” And they’re talking again. And I’m sitting there waiting. And my palms have gone sweaty and my face has gone hot, and it isn’t the Georgia humidity that’s doing it. It’s the two of them. And it hits me right then—no matter how much I want it to, nothing will stay the same.
When she comes back on, I say, “I gotta go. My whole world is upside down, and you’re too busy with Yvonne to even listen.”
“I’ve been listening this whole time. Look, I’m sorry if I’m being an asshole. I didn’t know you were going to call, and I’m so glad you did, because I miss you like hell, Hen, I do. It’s just that she’s here, and I don’t know what I’m doing. This is all new territory for me—you gone, me in a relationship.”
We fall quiet. And in that quiet I feel the chasm between us growing so big and deep that I wonder if we’ll ever be able to fill it again. We were never supposed to have secrets. We were supposed to always be Claude and Saz. Saz and Claude.
She says, “I’m serious about meeting you somewhere. Wyatt’s been asking about you.”
“He texted me.” And then, for some reason, I add, “I told him.”
“You told him what?”
“About my parents.”
“You told Wyatt?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Before I left Ohio.”
“But you didn’t tell me.”
I start to say something about Yvonne, but instead I say, “No. You’re too close. It would have made it real.” It feels foreign to edit the things I say to her. Instead of rebuilding the floor, I’m building walls.
She goes silent.
I say, “Are you still there?”
“Yeah.” Her voice has gone inward, as if she’s swallowed it. For a minute, neither of us say anything.
Finally, she sighs, “So let’s do it. Let’s meet somewhere and then get you back to Mary Grove.” But the way she says it, it sounds like the last thing she ever wants to do.
And even though I’m furious with her for going on with her life while I’m here, frozen and paralyzed, and even though she’s furious with me for telling Wyatt before telling her, there’s a part of me that wants to. I almost say, Yes. Let’s do it. Let’s just go. For a few seconds, I can see it again—Thelma and Louise on the open road. Wyatt and me, together at last.
But then I look around me at this store and, out there, beyond it, the live oaks and palm trees and marsh, and suddenly I’m right back here on this island, and on this island is my mother, elbow-deep in letters and papers and God knows what else. Trying to keep herself distracted and busy and filled with purpose so that she doesn’t crack in half.
“I can’t.” And saying it makes me feel as if I’m going to crack in half. And this will be the start of it. The point where I don’t look back but vow forever to be allied with my mom. In that moment I make this lifelong choice. Her over him. Her over everyone, including me.
“Hey. We’re going to figure this out. You’re not alone, Hen. No matter how much you feel like you are. You’re never alone. Not as long as I’m on this earth.”
“Okay,” I say. But the thing is, I am alone. And the chasm is still there. And Yvonne is there, taking my place. “What did you mean you weren’t surprised, when I told you about my dad?”
“I mean, your parents never argue. And they both work all the time, and I’ve never seen them hold hands.”
“They hold hands.” But even as I say it, I’m trying to remember a time when I’ve seen them hold hands or kiss or show any real physical affection toward each other the way Saz’s parents do. “Just because you’ve had one relationship—if you can even call it that—doesn’t mean you know everything about love.”
“The hell? I just said I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. I know things are shit right now, Hen, but you don’t have to take it out on me.”
“You have no idea what I’m going through.”
“No, I don’t, because you only told me ten minutes ago. Unlike Wyatt Jones, who has apparently known for a while.”
We sit in silence. I can hear her breathing fast and sharp on the other end. I almost end the call, but then she sighs loudly and says, “Listen. I don’t