Page 21 of What's in a Kiss?

“Thank God,” she says. “Now, you don’t have to take my advice—”

“Here we go,” I tell Gram Parsons.

“But your dad, may he rest, loved curls for a wedding.”

“Curls, great. On it.”

She takes my shoulders in her hands and studies me. “You’re not going to tell me what’s really going on?”

I don’t keep secrets from my mom. We’re the kind of close that talk on the phone multiple times a day, picking up in the middle of things. She hears about every bad date, recalls the names and personalities of my favorite former students. She knows which dogs bark at Gram Parsons when I hike with him at Runyon Canyon. She knows all my regrets. Except this one.

It was a timing issue. I devoted my post-prom life to the darkness of my room, and then my dad died four days later, and the force of gravity doubled overnight. After that, things were different. My mom and I suddenly had so much to deal with, and somehow the disaster of Glasswell and prom night never came up.

I sit down at the mixing board and put my headphones on. “Let’s just do the show.”

My mother doesn’t press—for the time being anyway. She moves to her desk and puts her own headphones on. But hereyes never leave mine as she takes a long sip of matcha and then flips on the mic.

“Helluva Friday to you, Future Listener of the Past,” my mom gives her standard greeting, but her eyes are watching me.

“Helluva day, Lorena,” I say my line. It was my idea to have a second mic, for chemistry and banter. Over time, my role on the podcast has evolved to something of a droll hypewoman, Tig Notaro meets Flavor Flav. But today, I’m having trouble staying inside my skin, let alone inhabiting a character. And my mom knows it. She’s had my number since before I was a twinkle in her eye.

All I’d wanted to show Glasswell this weekend was a passable facade of me. Then I’d gone and been an asshole to him on the ride from the airport. But he’d deserved it, hadn’t he? For catching me off guard like that? For invading my space and seizing every opportunity to condescend to me? For making me feel inferior in the special way only he can do?

I rub my eyes and banish him from my mind. Why am I thinking about Glasswell when I only just got rid of him? Is my guilty conscience gnawing away at my mind?

“Have we got an absolute treat for you this Friday,” Lorena interrupts my thoughts. “Our very own Olivia, my daughter for those who don’t know, vowed that she would actually read this week’sfabulousselection,Get Out of Your Inner Hero’s Way—”

“Mom.” My voice breaks and I take my headphones off, resting my head on my desk. “I can’t do this.”

My mother hits the button to stop recording. And waits.

“I. Hate. Jake Glasswell.” There. I’ve wailed it. And I don’t feel any better.

“The talk show host?” my mom says, and then, catching up, “Oh, the boy from high school?”

“He’s the best man at Masha’s wedding,” I croak. “The worst best man.”

Slowly I lift my head up to meet my mother’s eyes. She’s waiting for me to go on. She’s in no rush to ferry me out of my discomfort the way Masha’s mother does. I used to envy the way Mrs. Kuzsova would rush to coo over the smallest scrape or hurt feeling Masha felt. My mom would never do that. I’ve come to learn it’s both a strength and a weakness, her ability—sometimes her tendency—to sit with pain.

“You’re going to ask me what’s fanning the flames of my hate?” I say, quoting one of Lorena’s favorite self-help lines.

She nods. I sigh, and so does Gram Parsons.

I think for a moment, heat building in my core. I try to think of every smug thing Glasswell said to me today, but all that comes to mind are the insults I slung at him.

“Envy,” I admit. “Resentment. Ugly things he has a special skill for bringing out in me.”

I see a light go on in Lorena’s mind. Then she’s on her feet, moving toward her bookshelf. “This might call for Brené Brown. She has an atlas of the heart—”

“I don’twantBrené,” I say so forcefully that my mom stops and turns around. “I wantyou.”

“Oh honey.” My mom comes to me, padding quickly in socked feet. We meet halfway across the garage. “I’m here,” she says and takes me in her arms. “I’m right here.”

And I cry.

She helps me toward the beanbag chair, which is the only place to lounge in the garage. I collapse on it. She folds around me. Gram Parsons hops up, and sits in both our laps.

“What did Jake Glasswelldo?”

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