“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?”
“When I texted you this morning, you said you were going to the cages. A little slow on the uptake today, mate? Did you take one to the head?”
“I mean, why did you come?”
“It’s so nice to see you too.”
“I’m sorry. I’m a fucking mess.”
“I know.” He looks me over. Dean knows the basic details of what went down at the end of the hunt. I don’t keep secrets from Dean. “Leo, it’s not about him.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s not about him. It's about you. That’s what I came here to tell you. Because I had a feeling you were going to try to run your feelings away, strip them away, South American history them away. Am I getting warmer?”
I gulp. More like red-hot. I leave the cage, joining him on the other side of it. “Very warm.”
“Or perhaps whack them away.”
“It’s not working.”
