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Given the eye roll, I should have said Daphne. I search for the book later but still can’t remember where I stashed it. Some things are meant to remain a mystery.

I’ve been here short of two months when I pick up Keaton from the airport. Liam is going camping with her cousins for the weekend. Having experienced our whining on previous trips, he bought her a plane ticket to spare them both. Her visit works out perfectly, though, because Marco’s leaving me for a family reunion back in Oregon.

When we get to the apartment, she dives at him for a hug. The alarm in his eyes quickly gives way to annoyance, but he manages to pat her on the back. Only once.

After he takes off, she and I spend the afternoon walking down Rodeo Drive, well aware that we can’t afford anything but drooling on the windows nonetheless. On our way to a more rational shopping locale, we pass one of those buildings with a random collection of offices. A dermatologist, interior designer, accountant, a psychiatrist.

And that’s when I see it.

A single, wayward glance shifts my entire universe before it collapses.

Keaton continues walking, rambling about the benefits of power naps, but I’ve stopped dead center of the sidewalk. Someone bumps into me, but I hardly notice. The blood seems to have drained from every other part of my body to gather in my chest, pooling and throbbing while my mind races to make sense of what’s carved into the side of the stone building.

“Bennett?”

My head snaps to Keaton, who’s standing next to me. I force a swallow, blinking as I look around, my breath coming faster.

Then I dash through the door, driven by disbelief or shock or some other emotion I can’t even name because I’ve never felt anything like it. I only realize Keaton’s following when she grabs my hand, stepping onto the elevator. She squeezes tight, like she’s reminding me I’m here. I’m real. This is real.

The receptionist jumps when I throw the door open, banging it against the wall.

“Miss, do you have an appointment?” she says. Then, with more panic when I don’t slow down, “Miss, you can’t go in without an appointment.”

But I do, closing the door behind me.

The walls of the office are cream, displaying degrees and paper clippings. Calm, tranquil colors make up everything from the art to the baby-blue couch I drop onto. No invitation needed, I figure. Movies always show people lying back, but I never have—until now. I sink into the cushions and stare up at the exposed wood beams on the vaulted ceiling. After a few steady tick-ticks from a clock on the wall, I take a deep breath and start at the only place I can.

“I asked my mother if she loved me once. Flat-out, no bullshit.” My feet are propped up on the arm of the couch, and I pull an extra throw pillow onto my chest. It’s a soft yellow, relaxing to look at and easy to crush to me.

“I was terrified of her answer, but when she barely glanced up from the papers on her desk, I asked again. She was emotionless when she told me no. That it’s impossible to truly love anything if you don’t love all the parts of yourself. You can pretend, but deep down, you know it’s not real. You know it’s not your truth, and the longer you lie, the more of a disservice you’re doing to them and yourself.”

It was the most honest she’d been with me, and nothing in my life has ever wounded more. That was when I lost faith in love. I stopped believing this all-consuming emotion could transcend people’s faults and fill the empty places inside us. It might work for a little while, but it won’t last. The pieces will fall apart again worse than before. Our hearts more twisted.

My mind jumps to Dane, and I sniff to dismiss the stinging in my eyes. The pillow’s not so soft anymore, the walls not as tranquil. I swing my legs around, sitting up.

“A few weeks later, I was dumped at a friend’s house. Like fucking laundry or an old toaster she had no use for. An inconsequential thing she needed to purge from her life.”

I overhand the pillow across the room and send a picture frame on the desk crashing to the floor. But she doesn’t even flinch in her brown leather chair, the same impassive expression I grew up with staring back at me. I strive for equally indifferent and smooth my shirt.

“So, tell me, Dr. Ross, if the person who brought me into this world could throw me away and never look back, how do I trust everyone else won’t do the same eventually?”

The clock ticks again, deafening through the silence, and before I lose the cool-bitch edge I have going, I’m walking back across the room. I snatch a different picture frame off a shelf on my way by and pause at the door. I wait for some moment of reflection to turn me around, a latent emotion to send me running into her arms. Or for her to say something. Anything. But then I notice the headline of the article hanging on the wall in front of me. From her practice’s grand opening.

Six years ago.

She’s been in LA this entire time and never once tried to find me. Then again, why would she? I am not and will never be who she’s searching for.

“Goodbye, Mom,” I say, turning the knob.

Keaton is waiting by the receptionist’s desk, ready to fight if the woman so much as thinks about moving. I pass them both, and she follows me into the hall. I hand her the frame once we’re on the elevator and slump against the wall, trying not to collapse. To breathe.

“She’s still using these?” Keaton asks, glaring at the frame clenched in her hand.

I blow out air and nod. “That was the only one I saw. The others were just regular silver frames.”

The doors close, my mother’s name plaque disappearing behind them. Should I be crying? It feels like I should be. My body is exhausted, my mind reeling, but the emotions aren’t there. I broke into sobs when I lost my favorite therapist, fought back tears while thinking about Dane a few minutes ago, but now … nothing. No overwhelming sense of relief. No earth-shattering revelations.

Nine years of buildup and fucking nothing.

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