“No, of course we are,” Meg amended hurriedly. “But you’re, like . . . brave.”
“You’re brave,” Lillian countered. “And you’re smart, and you’re capable.” She took a sip of her cider. “Who do you want to work for? Hernandez?”
Meg’s eyes widened. “How did you know?”
“Well, your endless parade of campaign swag gave me a clue,” Lillian said with a grin. “You wear your heart on your sleeve, Meg—literally. And not for nothing, but it’s not like you’ve spent the last six months prancing around in a Cornell hoodie.”
Meg glanced down at her Anne with a Plan T-shirt. “Yeah,” she admitted, her response barely audible over the chorus of nos and wrongs and stupids clanging deep inside her head. Still, it was like saying the words out loud had broken some kind of invisible seal: it was out there now, a possibility. A different kind of life. “I guess you’re not wrong.”
When the show was over, Maja and Lillian walked her to her car and hugged her goodbye, Maja promising to send something delicious to WeCount on Tuesday. “I’m really glad you came out tonight,” Lillian said. She paused a moment, like she was debating saying anything. Then she took a deep breath. “Look,” she said, “I know we don’t know each other that well outside of work or whatever. But if you ever need anything, you can call me, okay? I stay up late.”
Meg thought of that night with her mom outside the WeCount office, wondering again how much Lillian had overheard. Normally, her instinct would have been to play dumb and cheerful, to promise them both that everything was fine, but something about the way Lillian was looking at her had Meg nodding.
“Thanks,” she said, waving good night before climbing into the Prius. She tapped the horn twice as she went.
Meg had texted to say she was coming home early, but still she was a little nervous about what might be waiting for her when she went inside the house. To her surprise, though, her mom was sitting on the couch in front of the classic movie channel in the den, a mug of Diet Coke on the coffee table in front of her. “Whatcha watching?” Meg asked, dropping her purse on the chair.
“Some dopey old thing,” her mom reported. “And extremely sexist, actually. But not as bad as a chicken in my underwear, et cetera.”
Meg smiled, perching on the edge of the sofa. “Where does that even come from?” she asked. “That expression, I mean.”
“You don’t know?” Her mom’s eyes widened. “It came from you.”
Meg blinked. “Really?”
Her mom nodded. “You were like four, and we were at Nanny Warren’s funeral out on Long Island. And I was crying—I really loved your father’s mother; it’s a shame you didn’t get to know her better—and you petted my arm and said, in this very small, serious voice: Don’t worry, Mommy, it’s not as bad as a chicken in your underwear. Your dad and I were dying. To this day I have no idea where you got it.”
Meg grinned; she couldn’t help it. “Me either,” she admitted. “It’s a mystery.”
“It’s a mystery,” her mom echoed, tilting her head back against the sofa. Finally, she took a deep breath. “I’m sorry about the little performance I put on the other day,” she said quietly. “It was out of line on my part.”
Meg didn’t know how to reply to that, not really. “It’s okay,” she finally said. “I appreciate it.”
Her mom nodded, straightening up and clearing her throat a little. “How was dinner?” she asked.
Meg hesitated. As much fun as she’d had at the concert, the truth was she felt hugely guilty for the way she’d skipped out on her dad. So much of having divorced parents felt like a balancing act, trying not to hurt anybody’s feelings. Trying to keep everybody fine. “I kind of bailed,” she admitted.
She was expecting her mom to wave it off as something her dad deserved, but instead she tilted her head to side thoughtfully. “He’s trying, you know,” her mom said finally, which was the most generous thing she’d said about him in a long time. “I know it’s got to be hard, and strange for you to be over there. And I know I probably haven’t made it any