Secretly, I believed Fiona Quinn was my soul mate too. And I wasn’t a person who believed in soul mates. I was crying a lot while eating ice cream, though.
“You do not sound okay,” he said, voice firm. “Are you meeting people? How’s the job?”
“I haven’t really gone out yet. But I’m sure I will. And the job is good.”
Another pause, then he said, “Max, don’t lie. I hate that shit, and you hate that shit.”
“I’m miserable, and I can’t sleep, and what if I made a giant mistake and ruined everything?” The words lifted a giant weight from my chest. I took my first full breath in days.
“Jesus,” Mateo said. “Have you talked to her?”
“No. Didn’t feel right. Thought it would lead her on.” I squinted at the sun again, rubbed my forehead. Not returning her calls made me feel like the world’s biggest asshole. That’s what I’d done to Mateo. That’s what my mother had done to me.
But I’d let my own damn cowardice get in the way.
“I thought I was doing the right thing, or I wouldn’t have done it,” I said. “When I saw Mom, it was like she never cared about who she hurt or when. She ended relationships like she was taking out the trash. I thought ending it with Fiona now meant we’d never get to that part. She’d be sad, and miss me, but then find the right man for her and go on to be happy.”
Mateo was quiet. When he finally spoke, there was a smile in his voice. “I understand it, Max. I really do. There were times in my and Rafael’s relationship when I thought ending it was the kinder, more ethical thing to do. Because I loved him so much I wanted to protect him from a future I couldn’t predict or control. But this, what you’re talking about right here, is what real love is made of. Facing the fears and the uncertainties together. Trusting. Let me tell you, my friend, that the connection between you and Fiona was not only powerful but clearly obvious. It looked like true love to me. And given that I’m engaged to my high school sweetheart, you could call me an expert in that area.”
Fate, the universe, destiny. Did you feel it too?
“If you weren’t meant to be with her, Max, then I think these past two weeks would have gone a lot better. Don’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you feel more like shit or less like shit?”
“Oh, way more. Like every day its worse.”
There was a gentle, but kind, laugh from his end. “Max, I think you have your first broken heart.”
“Man, shut the fuck up.”
“Nope. Have you listened to any love songs lately and cried?”
“Isn’t that how everyone spends their evenings?” Although mine would be postponed since, hell, I had to go get drinks with my boss and convince him I’d been a good hire.
“Well… no. They don’t. And not for nothing, but I think you should call Fiona.”
“Why, have you seen her?”
“I haven’t, I’m sorry. I know this is hard to hear, and I know it’s complicated with your new job, but I fully believe the two of you belong to each other. And belong with each other.”
Everything I’d done here—every beach, every sunset, every palm tree—had made me think about Fiona. Her laughter, that smart mouth, her fierce convictions, the way it felt to hold her in the morning as the sun set her hair on fire. The burden of it was too much sometimes.
“I have to be sure though, if I call her,” I said. “I can’t be that guy that dicks her around and plays with her emotions. She wants real commitment and deserves it.”
“Okay.” He didn’t sound convinced. “I get it.”
“And I’m homesick.”
“You’re homesick?”
“It happens. Listen, I should go before my boss catches me. I’ll call you in a couple days, okay?”
“Of course,” he said. “And please, please take care of yourself. I promise you, what you’re feeling is normal.”
We hung up, and I closed my eyes one last time.
If this was normal, why was I in so much pain?
47
Fiona
The next morning I stumbled into the kitchen to find my mom cooking bacon and cheddar omelets. My favorite. Coffee was brewing, and The Eurythmics were on the record player—a nod to my middle name.
It really was a Fiona weekend.
“Good morning, my brave and beautiful daughter,” she said, flipping the eggs expertly.
“You’re up so early,” I said, yawning and pouring myself a cup of coffee.
“Yes, well, your father and I took the entire weekend off,” she said. “To spend time with you.”
“Oh,” I said, surprised. “That’s really nice of you guys.”
She shooed me over to the kitchen table along with two giant dogs eager for breakfast. I scratched Matilda behind the ears and let Busy Bee curl up at my feet. “Before I married your father, I’d had my heart broken several times,” she said. “I remember that pain. It feels like it will never end.”
Tears sprang to my eyes. “Um… yeah.”
She patted the top of my head and then went back to frying bacon in the skillet. I curved my fingers around my coffee cup and enjoyed the warmth. “Thank you for what you and dad said the night of the benefit show. I don’t think I got a chance to say how much it meant to me.”
“You don’t have to thank us, dear,” she tutted. She sprinkled cheddar cheese on the top of the eggs. “You pulled off an incredible feat. I’m so proud to call you my daughter, you know that, right?”
Those tears pricked my eyes again. “Sometimes I don’t.”
Her hands stopped moving. She turned, spatula in hand, face pinched with concern.
I spoke before she could say anything. “I know I’ve always been the different one. The rule-following Quinn. I know all of my reminders are annoying and totally un-cool, but someone has to make sure the roof gets fixed and the bills get paid and the two of you get your flu shots. Being some corporate drone—” I winced, but continued. “—means that I can help plan your futures a little better. Make sure you and dad can play music when you’re old and gray. What you and dad said that night, it was like you saw my value. Not as your daughter. I know you love me. But as a person.”
My mother’s jaw went slack, and I thought she was going to drop the spatula. But then she turned, digging through a drawer overflowing with receipts, ticket stubs, old pictures. She walked back over, squeezing in next to me and wrapping an arm around my shoulders.
“Fiona.” Her voice was a little shaky. “I am sorry from the bottom of my heart for making you feel that way.” She tapped the picture, and I picked it up. The couple I recognized as my grandparents, although much younger. My aunts and uncles. And then Mom. I could tell it was Mom because of the way she was dressed. It was the early eighties, that much was clear, and where everyone else was rocking big, poofy hair and bright patterns, my mom looked like she’d walked right off the stage at CBGB. Tattoos on full display, all leather, hair dyed black, piercings everywhere.