Page 78 of Take It Till You Make It
“Okay,” Sally chirps.
Her cheery attitude has helped me so much. Both she and her aunt have made me feel like I truly am part of their family.
“Stella, you need to stop smiling. Is everything okay?” A look of alarm smooths the creases that generally sit at the corners of his eyes.
I startle. “Was I smiling again? I’m sorry. I’ll stop thinking.”
“You’re okay, though,” Hank confirms.
I nod. “I’m actually pretty great, thanks.”
Hank’s gaze slips behind me, and I imagine Crispin’s corresponding smile flashing right now. Hank’s eyes narrow when they shift back to me, putting his creases back in place. “Glad to hear it.”
“Okay,” Hank says. “Let’s get somber and moody. Christa, more moodiness. Stella, boredom. Lidia, you’re perfect, don’t change a thing. Trent, a little more longing whenever your gaze shifts to Lidia. Jeff, stop looking at Stella.”
That makes me laugh, but when I see Hank about to blow a gasket, I staunch it and immediately look bored. He closes his eyes a few beats longer than normal before he calls action.
It’s a very long morning of suppressing spontaneous grins every time I think of how lucky I am to be here doing what I’m doing with the people I’m doing it with.
Chapter Thirty
Late afternoon on Tuesday,as part of my birthday gift, Mom goes shopping with me to help me buy a dress for my date with Crispin. She has far better fashion sense than I do; plus, she wears dresses, whereas I wear sweats.
We go to a cute little boutique I’ve been eyeing. Mom describes the dress she’s imagining to the shopgirl, who scurries off to find a selection of options to fit the bill. I settle Mom in a comfy chair just outside the dressing rooms and then perform a fashion show for her. I’m surprised to like most of the dresses, which all have a relaxed bohemian style. The long, flowing fabrics make me feel like I wouldn’t be flashing my underwear at people whenever I sit. Mom and I like the same dress the most, so I buy that along with a new pair of sandals to go with it.
“You and Crispin seem to be getting serious,” Mom says when we sit perpendicular to each other at a Mexican café a couple doors down from the shop.
We’re seated on a rooftop patio, protected from the heat of the setting sun by a shade cloth flapping in the sea breeze overhead. We have a spectacular view of the ceaseless tide rolling onto the beach. The waves shimmer and sparkle in the waning light as if they are sprinkled with diamond dust. Seagulls land on the patio and give us the side eye, hoping we’ll offer a chip before scampering to the next patron to beg a bite of enchilada.
I shrug as I dip a chip into a bowl of salsa. “I wouldn’t say serious, but it has definitely accelerated this week with my birthday making me legal to date.”
Mom sits back in her chair and studies me. I study her as well. It’s so good to see her putting on a little weight again. The dark circles have faded from under her eyes, which spark with interest as she considers what I said. I can’t say I miss the dull, flat expression she had for months. I’m proud of her for the work she’s doing to dig herself out. And it’s nice to have her back again as my mom.
“Obviously, you’ve seen each other prior to you turning eighteen,” Mom acknowledges. “But I like that he waited. Was it his idea? Or did you two talk about it?”
I sigh and put the chip down on my little plate. “Honestly, I never thought to talk to him about it. The whole time I was worried about our age difference, but never said anything to him.”
“That bothers you.”
It’s both a statement and a question. I nod. “I should have trusted him more to talk to him about it.”
“Ari, you’re just getting to know one another. There’s no reason to feel bad about being cautious. You have a right to protect your heart.”
I sit up straight, and tears flood my eyes. “Oh. That’s what you’ve been doing.”
She picks up her spoon and starts tapping the end of it on the table, shaking her head. “No, I wish I could say it was something like that. Sure sounds more eloquent. The ugly truth of it is that the day I opened the door to that police officer, my heart shattered into a million little pieces.”
I nod. I have a hard time finding my voice. “Of course it did. Mine did too.”
She continues to tap the spoon, her attention riveted on the action. She looks angry or disgusted.
“Mom?”
Her nose twitches, and finally, she looks up to meet my gaze, and the sorrow I see takes my breath away.
“But I didn’t work to put the pieces back together, did I?” she asks. A single tear rolls down her cheek, and she brushes it away angrily. “I left that to you. My teenage daughter. I checked out of reality, waiting for “normal” to miraculously return, and left you to fend for yourself.”
She slams the spoon onto the table. I flinch, staring down at the inert utensil, but seeing flashes of the last -almost- year, unsure what to say. I can’t tell her it’s okay, because it truly wasn’t. But there is one truth in all of this. I look at her and let myself relax. “We’ve made it through. We’ll continue to make it through.”
