Jordan puts his hand on his heart. “Oh, it gets better. You’re re-gifting.”
“Shut up!”
Kristen reaches for the card. “Don’t mock this. Towels aren’t cheap, and I’m going shopping tomorrow and you’re coming with me.”
I tap Trey’s shoulder. “Not that I’m upset, but why would you get it for me and never give it to me?”
“It wasn’t right for you,” he says in a low voice. “Besides, I’m working on something else for you. I promise.”
He drapes his arm around my shoulder, and pulls me in close, and I feel safe and warm. I turn my gaze to the window, and wintry Manhattan night beyond the glass. Snow is starting to fall; this will be one of my last snows in a long time. We leave in thirty-six hours, and I’ll miss so much about New York, but so little, too. I said goodbye to Joanne earlier today and she made me promise I’d go to SLAA meetings in San Diego. I told her I’d already looked up times and locations.
“I’m proud of you, and I’m also pissed, because I knitted baby booties that you won’t need,” she said.
“I definitely won’t need booties. But I’m glad you’re proud of me,” I said, swiping away a tear. “I won’t forget that you’re the one who showed me the ugly beautiful.”
“And now you can take it with you, wherever you go.”
I feel that way about my friends too, like Kristen, and Cam. Because even though they won’t be coming to California, there are pieces of them that will always stay with me.
The most important parts of my life are coming with me, though. I snuggle in closer to Trey, and he wraps me tighter in his embrace.
Somewhere out there, our new life is about to begin.
It is our last night in New York before our nine a.m. flight tomorrow. Trey got a hotel room just for fun, he said. And because we’ve never spent the night in a hotel, so why not?
Why not, indeed?
Before I meet him at The Time Hotel in the heart of midtown and we pretend we’re fancy cool people who stay at kick-ass hotels all the time, there is something I must do.
I wrap my purple scarf from Joanne around my neck, pull up the collar on my warm coat, and brace myself as I walk from the subway stop through the late afternoon crowds along Central Park West. The cold bites my cheeks, and my boots crunch against the remnants of last night’s snow. Not much is left, and what remains has become yellow and dirty. I turn onto a most familiar block.
I’ve spent nearly my whole life in this city with one person. And I may never see that person again. I’m fine with that, but there is someone else who may not be, and it’s not fair for me to make the choice for my baby. I’m not going to do to my kid what my mom did to me.
I knock on my mother’s door. When she answers, she seems surprised to see me. Then she straightens her spine, smoothes her hair, and flashes a smile. She’s not Barb Coleman for nothing. She knows how to pretend everything is fine and dandy, but the dark circles under her eyes—mostly artfully concealed by makeup, but not entirely—give her away. She’s still not sleeping well.
“Harley, I’ve been following the news. Quite an eventful few days in the publishing world. Would you like to come in?”
I shake my head. Even though I’m shivering and the warm air from inside my one-time home rushes to greet me, it won’t lure me in.
I used to think I was like her. I used to feel as if we were sisters. Now I know we are not the same. And I won’t ever be like her.
I am breaking the cycle.
“I came here to let you know I’m moving to San Diego with my husband. I’m finishing school there, and I’m living with Nan and Pop. We’re going to raise our baby there. I want you to have my address and my contact information. I won’t do to my kid what you did to me. I won’t cut you out of his or her life,” I say, then I reach into my pocket for a sheet of paper, and I hand it to her. “That’s my info on it. I’ll send you a picture when the baby’s born. And I also included the name and number of a really good shrink in the city—Michele Milo. She specializes in intimacy issues. You might want to think about getting some help for yours.”
She says nothing, but she takes the piece of paper, folds it up, and stuffs it into her pocket.
“Travel safely, my dear.”
And those are the last words she says to me. I wish she’d said, “Thank you, I’ll go start therapy.” I wish she’d said “Sorry.” I wish she’d said, “I’m proud of how you’ve changed.”
Yet travel safely is all I get, and I suppose in the scheme of things, it’s all I truly need.
Sometimes, we want so much more, but I walk away content that I have all I need.
As I head toward the crosswalk, I spot a dark-haired girl who grew up on the same block. She’s a few years younger than me, but has always seemed worldly in her own way, as if she knew too much, saw too much for her age. Like me. She’s walking in my direction, fiddling with a sparkly charm necklace hanging at her throat, visible even with her coat on.
“Hey Harley.”
I wave. “Hey Kennedy. How’s it going?”
Her lips part, as if she’s not sure what to say. “It’s going,” she says with a sigh.
“I know what you mean. When do you graduate?”
“Not soon enough.”
I laugh. “I guess you’re ready to get out of the house and away from your mom?”
“Like you wouldn’t even believe.”
She’s a kindred spirit. I don’t know all the details, but she’s got one of those big, bold, brash moms, and I’ve always had a hunch Kennedy craved freedom from her. I’m glad I found mine. I hope Kennedy finds her escape too.
“You’ll get there,” I say, because I want to encourage her, even for one brief instant, as Joanne has done for me so many times. “Even when it seems hard, you’ll get there. And you won’t regret it.”
Her shoulders relax, and her lips curve up. “You have no idea how much I needed to hear that right now.”
I smile, glad that I was able to give her what she needed at a random moment in time.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Harley
“Do you realize I can get a complimentary overnight hand-polished shoeshine? I honestly can’t think of anything I’d rather have right now.”
“Do it. Get your flip flops shined,” I tell Trey, as he flips through the list of amenities this chichi hotel offers its very posh guests.
“But there’s also the nightly turn-down service,” he says, tapping the picture of a freshly made hotel bed, with the white sheet pulled over a dark blue comforter, exactly like the one we’re lying on.
He pretends to stare thoughtfully at the ceiling, as if he’s considering which services to partake of. “Or room service,” I suggest even though we already had dinner at Serafina, an Italian restaurant that’s part of the hotel.
“We just ate. Don’t tell me the two of you are hungry again.”
“That was two hours ago,” I point out. “I might have room for dessert.”
He tosses aside the list of amenities, and it hits the carpet with a dull thud. Then he tugs me close to him. “I’ve got dessert for you,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows playfully.
“I bet you do. You always do.”
“And I always will. But I actually have that gift I’m working on for you.” He hops up from the bed and heads over to the chair where he left his backpack, then returns with his sketchbook. Clutching it tight to his chest, he says, “It’s not done yet. But I’m working on something for you. And the baby.”
A ribbon of excitement unfurls in me, as I eagerly watch him open the sketchbook. “Here it is,” he says, showing me two pages.
He’s sketched out a gorgeous beach, with bright blue waves rolling onto the golden sand that’s spread for miles. In the middle of the image a girl—she’s maybe six, or seven—runs across the sand, looking over her shoulder. She holds her hands up to the sky, as if she’s catching snowflakes. But she’s reaching for sparkles raining down. It’s reality meets magic; it’s the world we live in with a touch of the fantastic. But, more than that, it’s the illustration of the first card my grandparents sent me, the story I told them that they echoed back to me for my birthday years ago.