“And that means what, exactly?”

I tell her everything. I’ve never held back from her. “And so, that’s why I thought we could stalk my Facebook page, like that rhymes-with-witch did, and study every single photo ever to see if we see it too. I mean, this is what you’re good at. Studying media.”

With the forkful of noodles inches from her mouth, Mom shoots me a look. The look that says the cheese has slipped from the cracker. After she chews, she sets down the fork. “Let’s not. Why don’t we talk about it instead?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. I don’t want to talk about it. I do want to talk about it. But talking about it won’t fix the bigger issue. I want the bigger issue fixed. I want him back. “It doesn’t matter if he loved me for ten years or ten seconds. He’s hung up on the past.”

“Does it matter to you that he’s felt this way for years? Does it change anything for you?”

A sob rattles up my throat, and I shake my head, answering with the whole truth. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

I try to hold the tears at bay. “It doesn’t. And honestly, I didn’t stalk the photos. I didn’t spend my afternoon staring at photo albums.”

“What did you do?”

“I went to work. I made chocolate. I fiddled with recipes. I served customers. And I missed him. It’s stupid because it’s only been one day, maybe two, that I realized I felt this way. And I don’t get it, Mom. Why do I miss him this intensely? It’s only been a few hours since I saw him. Well, it’s been nine hours, thirty-three minutes, and twenty-seven seconds since I told him to figure it out. And I miss him like it’s been years.”

She fights off a grin. “Nine hours, thirty-three minutes, and twenty-seven seconds?”

“Give or take on the seconds.”

She laughs. “You miss him because you fell in love with him. You miss him because you want his love in return. He’s loved you for years; you’ve loved him for a few days. But to both of you it feels like years. Think about that.”

I absorb her words, trying to absorb her meaning. But all I know is I long for him. Maybe this is how he felt for me all the time. That awareness makes my heart ache harder.

“The thing is, I should be scared that he’s felt this way for a long time. I should want to go look at every photo, analyze every conversation, and study every e-mail. And I did feel that way for a while. For an hour, maybe.”

“My my, you have become the most efficient woman at processing your emotions.”

I laugh lightly. “I think I have. I think that’s what I learned from my marriage. How to navigate through the storm. How to see when there wasn’t starlight to guide me. But I don’t need to pore over the past. I’ve done that. I’ve spent enough time on it. All I want is my future. And I can’t have it yet. I can’t have it unless Leo decides to navigate through his stuff.”

Mom reaches for my hand. “The waiting is the hardest part.”

“How long do I wait?”

“How much do you love him?”

“As much as I loved my tiara when I was nine. As much as I loved the twenty-five-thousand times I listened to Christina Aguilera in high school and drove you crazy, even though you’d never have admitted that out loud. And maybe, sometimes, more than chocolate. So what do I do?”

She laughs. “You think I’m going to tell you what to do?”

“Please. Just tell me. For once in your life.”

She shakes her head and crosses her arms. “Not gonna do it.”

I grab her arms, trying to uncross them. “Pretty please with multimedia analysis and popular culture discourse on top.”

Her laughter bursts across her apartment. “Lulu, just be yourself. Wait for him. Or don’t wait for him. Speak your mind. Or don’t speak your mind. Tell him what’s in your heart. Or don’t tell him. Mostly, you do you. Because you?” She cups my cheek. “You are fabulous just the way you are. You are on the other side. And whatever you do, you’re going to be just fine.”

She’s right.

I am going to be fine.

Maybe even better than fine. I can’t do a damn thing about his issues. But I can do something about how I feel.

After we finish the Thai food, I grab my phone.

But I don’t stalk wedding photos on Facebook or elsewhere.

I text Cameron and Mariana, and I ask if they’re free this weekend.

Then as Mom and I watch Shrek 2, pointing out the clever way the script both subverts and embraces fairy tales, I compose a letter in my head to Leo.

I make plans to send it to him tomorrow.

35LEO

I swing at the white ball the next morning.

It whizzes past me.

Another white orb flies in my direction.

With laser focus, I keep my eye on the ball and take aim as it sails over the plate. I connect in a satisfying thwack. The ball goes sailing all the way to the fence, smacking the chain link at the edge of the batting cages.

I’m here because there’s no cemetery to go to. There are no graveside conversations to be had, like in the movies. Besides, graveside conversations are stupid. A rotting pile of bones can’t exonerate you.

But something has to.

Something has to give.

I’ve tried running all night.

I’ve tried furniture stripping all morning.

The way I see it is this—the busier I can make myself, the better I can process and the sooner I can be with Lulu.

If I push this boulder of the past higher up the hill, soon I’ll reach the top. And maybe it won’t come sliding back down to crush me.

I zero in on another ball, whacking it to kingdom come.

Yes. That’s it. More imaginary home runs. More time in the cage. More anything. I grit my teeth, willing myself to figure this out.

“You know, it’s not about him.”

I startle, and the next ball flies past me, landing with a thunk at my feet. I swivel around to find Dean outside the batting cage, and I turn off the machine. “What are you doing here?”