Page 1 of Tell Me You Love Me

ROUND ONE

ALANA

All the greatest stories start with a question, no? A thought-provoking premise where the narrator asks the reader to consider a hypothetical situation its protagonist faces. A, ‘How would you handle this?’ or ‘Would you do it differently?’

Often, the reader will have their own theories because of the lenses of their history, the glasses through which they see life, filtered through their personal experiences. Sometimes, the reader will know exactly how they would handle the hypothetical because they’ve already faced one exactly like it. Or, and possibly more likely, maybe they have absolutely no experience at all, and thus, their ideas are flawless… in their minds, anyway.

That’s the beauty of ignorance. The gift of innocence.

Not knowing is a blessing. And I… well, I’m not sure I was in the correct line when God was handing those out.

“How long until we get there, Mom?”

I glance in my rear-view mirror, the New York City skyline slowly shrinking in the distance, but then I peel my eyes downwards and stop on my son and his dark, moppy hair.

He doesn’t like it long. But he likes having it cut even less.

“It’ll be a while, honey.” I scan the traffic spread out in front of us, changing lanes and angling toward a life I’ve already escaped once, almost ten years ago to the day.

Ironic, really.

“You said it would take twenty-four hours.”

“Twenty-fourdrivinghours.” I merge toward our exit and swallow the lump of nerves nestled in the base of my throat, then I pull sunglasses down to cover my eyes and the itching redness that fills them, because leaving New York is not just leaving a city. It’s leaving our home, the only one Franky has ever known.

It’s leaving my husband.

My best friend in the whole world.

My agent.

My contacts.

It’s leaving my dreams. And dammit, I’m not ready to let go of those.

“We’ll stop tonight and stay in a motel,” I explain carefully, knowing with sickening certainty that if I allow my voice to break from emotion, my son will ask questions I’m not sure I can answer. He doesn’t know how not to. “I booked us in at this nice place that overlooks a lake. We have a ground-floor room with a door that leads out to the grassy area, and I saw on the website they have a grill on the patio, so maybe we can stop by a grocery store and buy something to cook instead of hitting a fast-food place.” I thumb the volume controls on my steering wheel and turn the music just a little higher. “We could sit outside and watch the sun go down. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

“No.” He stares straight into my mirror, his glasses reflecting the morning sun so I only see a portion of his perfect hazel gaze. Flattening his lips, he deadpans, “Sounds like we’re gonna get bit by mosquitos and itch all the way to Grandma’s tomorrow.”

I breathe out a soft laugh, shaking my head as the traffic surrounding us thins. At this hour, most people are headinginto the city. Notoutof it. “Are you excited to see Grandma Bitsy?” My stomach quivers with nerves. With dread. With the aching knowledge that, once we arrive in the small, six-thousand-person town aptly named Plainview, I’ll no longer have the luxury of ignoring the ghosts I fled from a decade ago, nor the woman who hounded my youth with her constant onslaught of ‘you’re not good enough’ and ‘you’ll achieve nothing to be proud of’.

The woman is a peach.

“She’s been calling almost every hour since I told her we were coming, honey. She’s busting out of her skin, waiting for you.”

“I don’t hardly know her.” He folds his arms and looks out the side window. “And she’s loud.Allthe time. Is she like that in real life?”

Yup. She sure is, kiddo.

“We can tell her you like things to be a little quieter.” A text pops up on my dash, drawing my eyes to my best friend’s name flashing for attention, though I don’t read it yet. “Remember how we talked about speaking up for ourselves?”

“People think I’m rude when I do that.”

“Some people get uncomfortable when a child advocates for themselves. We come from a world where kids are expected to be seen but not heard. It’s that way in places like Plainview, especially.” I search the mirror, catching just the side of his sweet face. “It’s not rude to speak up, honey, even if they’re uncomfortable. As long as you’re being respectful, I’ll back you up every single time.”

“Do you think Grandma will try to hug me and stuff?” He’s as nervous as me. As wary and worried and, simply put, not all that excited about this move. But life doesn’t always go the way we want it. When your mother is sick and your husband and his assistant fall in love, it’s time to pack a few things and consider a new plan.

“I don’t want anyone to hug me.”

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