the money? Because I’ll give you every cent I have if this isn’t what you want. You have options, Camilla. This life is not for the weak.”
Mascara runs down her cheeks with tears, but she wipes them away. “I’m not weak.”
“Stop crying,” I demand. “Hold it in until it feels like you’re going to rip at the seams, and then hold it tighter.”
Drawing in a breath that rocks her entire frame, Camilla levels her shoulders and lifts her chin in defiance. Sadness, discontent, or frustration fall steadily from her eyes, smearing her makeup, but she proves to be stronger than I give her credit for and meets me head-on.
“It’s not too late to end it here, Camilla. If any part of you is unsure, even after tonight, this is your last chance before it changes you for the rest of your life,” I warn her.
Camilla’s golden eyes catch fire, and she says, “And this is the last time you doubt me, Lydia.”
She kicks off her heels and doesn’t bother to pick them up as she walks past me, hanging on to the edge of composure by the very tips of her fingers. I have no doubt she lets go as soon as she’s on the other side of the door, and I don’t blame her. She’ll be happy later that she didn’t show me how conflicted she really is.
Now that Camilla’s home, I return to my own bedroom, where for the first time today, I focus solely on the source of my aching heart. In the top drawer of my nightstand, just like it was ten years ago, is the folder with my birth certificate and social security card. And on top of that, is the note Cricket left for me.
Have a good time, baby.
Love,
Mom.
The blue lines on the ripped notebook paper have faded to mint green, and the edges are fragile and soft. Besides myself, this seven-word note is the only proof Cricket Montgomery existed. It’s endured the last decade shoved in my back pocket or crumpled at the bottom of a bag, but unlike the person who wrote it or the forty dollars it came with, I still have it.
I put the note back in its spot before dialing Talent’s phone number in my prepaid cell phone. He picks up after the first ring, and instead of saying hello or I miss you or why can’t you stay the fuck away, I say, “My mom died ten years ago today, and all I have left is a stupid note she left me because I was a bitch to her.”
Instead of replying that it’s going to be okay, or that we can get through this tough time together, or that death is the fucking worst, he says, “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
He knocks on the front door sixteen minutes later.
Talent traded the shorts and T-shirt for a navy-blue suit and black tie. His jacket is unbuttoned, and his shoes shine under the yellow-orange porch light. With one hand in his pocket and the other in his hair, Talent is poise personified.
He doesn’t wait to be invited inside when I answer. Talent pushes the door completely open and closes it without taking his eyes away from me. His eyes rarely leave me when we’re together, constantly like he’s afraid to miss something. Right now, I’m stoic and unmoving, stuck somewhere between grief and relief that he came back. Blinking, breathing, or speaking is listless, like punching in a dream, and I don’t have the energy to say anything but a simple hello.
“Hey, come here.” Talent takes my hand and pulls me forward. “Why didn’t you say anything, Lydia? I wouldn’t have left you.”
That’s exactly why I didn’t tell you, I think to myself. But somewhere along the way, I decided I didn’t want to go through this alone anymore.
Grief won’t let me stray too far, but looking into Talent’s somber expression, I find comfort in his nearness. He ebbs the rampant sorrow this day brings with it, but Talent also makes it impossible to ignore how chronically lonely I am.
I didn’t know what I was missing until he filled the void, and I don’t think I can go back to a life he’s not a part of.
Talent runs his hands up my arms, leaning forward to kiss my forehead. I close my eyes to savor the sensation of human contact with someone I care about when he draws me in and binds his arms around my body. Like a