Lucas’s Christmas presents in the fall during Labor Day sales, the like. Yes, there was a shouldn’t have quit yoga, but that wasn’t really reflective, now was it? That was an action that she would like to undo. But did not. Had not. The yoga itself might lead to a more meditative, thoughtful state, but as it was on the list . . . not particularly insightful. Even, Cleo realized, her regret about her artistic pursuits. She could have tried something, done anything!, but she hadn’t. She’d been content to jot it down and carry on. She reread the list of 233 regrets and wondered why she hadn’t found them more propulsive, why they hadn’t sparked her to change, to make amends, and who she might be, how she might feel if she had.
Indeed, Cleo had instead used the list to purge herself of guilt, of any sort of misdeed—big or small—but she hadn’t used it to become better. And though her dad wasn’t around to ask, she was starting to suspect that was his intention. Her father was a good man. He was faithful and devoted and funny and smart. And maybe his list made him this way or maybe he made his list to avoid becoming anything he didn’t want to be—unfaithful, cruel, less informed. Cleo didn’t know; she couldn’t know now. But she did know that writing things down and using them for good were not the same thing. It occurred to her how much this notion echoed the very beginning of MaryAnne’s op-ed.
“Anyway,” Gaby said. “Two orders of business. One: Oliver Patel has asked if he can come visit.” She grimaced as if this were a terrible thing as Cleo raised her eyebrows. “But I’ve decided I like him and so I said yes.”
“Wow,” Cleo said, swallowing the last of her Trefoil sandwich. “That’s unexpected.”
“I shouldn’t have started with that because we’ll have to unpack that at a different time.” Gaby talked over her. “I should have started with: I just got off Skype, and Veronica Kaye wants a meeting.”
“Veronica Kaye? Of Veronica Kaye?” Cleo knew it sounded stupid even as she asked it, and she hated sounding stupid. But she, who was pretty hard to stun, was stunned.
Veronica Kaye ran the empire Veronica Kaye Cosmetics, which she had founded when Cleo was in about middle school (Cleo and MaryAnne just loved, loved, loved their frosty pink lip gloss) and which over its first decade became a billion-dollar company. It was female-led from top to bottom, from Veronica herself to the women on the sales floor at Nordstrom and Macy’s and now on QVC, which hocked a slightly lesser brand of the goods for a discount price. She was known to write big checks for candidates she supported, but receiving this support was elusive, the white whale of the political world. She’d never jumped into the presidential race, instead choosing to focus on smaller, local campaigns where she thought grassroots work could make a bigger difference. Cleo had always admired her for that. It was easy to write a check for a splashy candidate who got coverage on all the news networks. It was probably more authentic to quietly endorse a state senator or a local mayor who could bring immediate change to a community.
“You led with Oliver Patel when you could have started with Veronica Kaye?” Cleo said. “Oliver was cute in high school and obviously foxy now, but seriously?”
“I know, I know. I’m allowed one swoony mistake at the thought of his cheekbones, and that’s it. Oh, also, he FaceTimed me this morning and I was almost late for work . . .”
Cleo held up her hand. “I love you more than anyone in this world other than Lucas, but I really do not need to hear about your phone sex.”
“Technically, it was FaceTime sex, but point taken.” Gaby checked her phone. “Also, I need that list of your ten regrets by end of day. That’s what put you on Veronica’s radar in the first place.”
“My regrets put me on her radar? Gaby, no one knows about this list other than you.”
“Right, but I mean, the video, the buzz. The spunk behind it.”
Cleo met her gaze. “I mean it, Gaby. I don’t care if you want to tell the world that I’m trying to make some . . . reparations. I do care if you share that I have two hundred and thirty-three of them.” She didn’t add: And that this was my thing