I walk into the kitchen and talk to the counter, the fridge, the stove. “Fuck off.”
I pivot around and pass the picture of Tripp and me at his restaurant. I stop to stare at it. Somehow, somewhere, I’m vaguely aware of words I could say to his image—thoughtful, caring words.
Those don’t come. Others hiss from my lips.
“Most of all, fuck you.”
But I don’t think he’s the one in the photo I’m speaking to.
34LULU
My mother answers the door at eight that evening. I brandish a bag of Thai takeout, some popcorn, and my phone.
“I’ve got Facebook, and I’m not afraid to use it.”
She laughs and lets me in. “I’ll never forget how much you loved Shrek in middle school. You used a variation on that line for everything. ‘I’ve got a dragon, and I’m not afraid to use it.’”
“It’s your fault. You taught me how to study film and movies and pop culture.”
“Correction: I taught you that Shrek was full of irony.”
I frown, shouldering my way into her place. “My life is full of irony.”
Once inside, I flop down in a chair at the table and extract the pad thai and pumpkin curry. She grabs forks and plates.
“Let’s just eat straight from the carton.”
“My home. My rules. Use plates.”
“Fine.”
She serves the food and slides a plate in front of me. “So . . .”
I sigh heavily. “You nailed it.”
“Did I?”
“When you said years in his eyes. You were right.”
“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?”
