across the room, startled at this realization. It was just a thread she was pulling, an imaginary thread at that, starting with a stupid interpretive dance class. She didn’t regret Lucas (of course!) or any of the struggle that came with him. And most of the time, Cleo genuinely loved her life, and she was proud of it. But still. It was easy to see how this list could go sideways. How looking back started to make you question the way forward. And, as her campaign slogan intended to convey, Cleo McDougal preferred to only look forward.
She stood, retrieved the pen from the floor by her office door, then swung the door open and listened for Lucas. It was still early Seattle time. Maybe he was talking with Esme?
“Luc?” she yelled down the hall. “Lucas?”
She heard her phone buzz in her office, so scampered back.
Emily: Town crier knows all. Penny confirms L is “with” Marley Jacobson.
Cleo : What does “with” mean?
Emily: . . .
. . .
Emily: (Checking)
. . .
Emily: She says it means they are “together.” I realize this is not more helpful.
Cleo searched for the miserable-face emoji but found it took too long to find and gave up.
Cleo: OK. Ugh. Thanks.
She settled back at her desk, trying to reorient herself and focus. She’d intended to cull the list, and cull it she would. Dealing with Lucas’s love triangle could wait. She knew she wasn’t the best one to give advice on romance, and she further knew that he would pounce on this weakness immediately. He was her son, after all. He could nearly out-debate her now, if and when he chose to string more than three words together consecutively, which was not often. (So in some ways, also a blessing.)
Cleo flipped the yellow papers. She resolved to cross out any items that were nonsensical to her now—vague, in-the-moment regrets that she couldn’t possibly fix or redo because she had no idea what they meant all these years later. She clicked the top of the pen, swiped through a couple dozen this way, easy. What did steps!!! or too many mushrooms mean after all these years anyway? It didn’t matter. She axed through seventy-two of these.
Next she thought she’d categorize the remaining. There were regrets, and then there were regrets like Alexander Nobells, among others. He wasn’t even the gravest. Those were regrets that were no one’s business but her own. She eased back in her chair, squeezed her eyes closed, pinched the bridge of her nose. She’d never intended for some of them to fester as they had. Sometimes an act or a lie or a misdeed started out simply as an in-the-moment impulse. No one ever really thought that they would follow you around, potentially haunt you forever.
Cleo opened her eyes, tore off a sheet of clean paper, and removed a ruler from her top drawer. She drew three parallel lines down the page, then inked a perpendicular line on top. Three columns. The first: Stupid Things. The second: Possible Fixers. The third: Off-Limits.
Cleo figured perhaps she could take a few from the first column, a handful from the second, and keep the third at bay. This should satisfy Gaby and hopefully please Veronica Kaye too, who, according to Gaby, loved the spunk she was seeing from Cleo without—Gaby promised—knowing the impetus (the list!) behind it.
She started scribbling, filling in the lines. She’d gotten only four deep when Lucas stuck his head through the door.
“Hey.”
Cleo jolted. She hadn’t ever told Lucas about the list and certainly didn’t need him reading it. Couldn’t have him reading it. When do parents grow to be OK with their kids knowing they are fallible? That they tell half-truths to protect their children or sometimes also, yes, themselves? That they do the best they can, which often isn’t good at all. She opened her drawer quickly, dropping the papers and pen and ruler inside. She shoved it closed.
“What’s up?”
Lucas glanced suspiciously toward the drawer. “What’s that?”
“Just a draft of a speech I’m working on.”
“You have a speechwriter.”
Cleo nodded. She did. “I know. But you know how I micromanage.”
Lucas made a face as if this were likely. She did micromanage. It wasn’t too far-fetched.
“So listen,” he said. “I don’t want to alarm you—”
“Oh my God, is this about Marley Jacobson?” Cleo interrupted, though there was no reason to think it was about Marley Jacobson. She realized this as soon as she said it.
“What?” Lucas soured. “Who told you about Marley?”