“Well, shit, I’m surprised. I’m surprised about the whole thing!” Lottie’s mouth is wide open, with Stana and me laughing softly.
“This whole thing is a mess. I need to tell Ali the truth; I’d never ask you to hide this from him, Stana.” She looks relieved, though I know she tries to hide it. Stana is an extremely loyal friend, and if I asked her to, she probably would keep it to herself, but I also know it would eat her up inside.
“We’re here for anything,” Stana tells me. “This is a lot for you to be dealing with, Em. I don’t want you to think you have to push it aside or not talk about it. It’s okay to be upset.”
“God, this is horrible for me to even ask, but Stan, can you tell Ali? I just can’t face him right now. It’s all too much. I’ll have to see him eventually, but I just feel like it will be easier if he’s already aware.”
“Of course.” She nods.
I smile at them both, even though my insides feel like a wrecked car.
Stana gets up, running her hands up and down her jeans, clearly unsure of everything. “I think I’ll make tea,” she says more to herself than anyone, hurrying off into the kitchen.
“It’s a horrible feeling,” Lottie whispers to me, moving closer. “I understand they’re different, the things we’ve each been through, but the underlying feelings of betrayal are there. So, I just want you to know, I joke about hunting them down and killing them, but at the end of the day, it’s just us, Em. They’re gone, and we’re still here. So, when you start feeling that overwhelming tsunami of emotions, you call me, okay?”
Each word comes out more intense, ferocious, than the preceding ones. This side of Lottie is one I’ve yet to meet. This is the side that saved Stana from her life in LA, this is the side that goes to bat for her friends when they need her, and no doubt, this will be the side that comes out when people hurt her daughter.
“I never say it enough, but I’m so lucky you came into my life, Lottie. Without you and Stana, I’m not sure what I’d do.”
As if her ears were burning, Stana returns, tea in hand. No doubt it’s not strong enough, and there is far too much milk—it’s the American in her—but it’s the thought that matters, and that huge heart inside of her.
“Why don’t we stay tonight?” Stana throws out, adding sugar to my cup. “It could be fun. Make it like a sleepover, like old times!” She adds enthusiasm to each word, and despite her good nature, I know it’s not what I need.
“It’s okay. Really, I’m going to be fine. I just need to process this alone, plus I’m on deadline for work and already so behind from the events of the last few days. But I promise to call tomorrow.”
They look unconvinced, but each know there isn’t much they can really do.
“If you’re sure,” Stana says, worry deeply rooted in her stare.
I’m not actually sure. Not sure of anything.
They stay for another hour, clearly not yet ready to leave me. I listen as they try to change the subject to happier topics, yet my mind isn’t in it. My earlier conversation with Reeve replays over and over in my head, as if maybe I can pinpoint the area where it all went so wrong.
The girls eventually leave, and I’m still sitting on the couch alone an hour later, the sound of the door closing as he left ringing through my mind. After the millionth replay, I figure that this is enough, no more replays, no more overthinking. Then I decide.
Distraction. That’s what I need. Instead of letting myself wallow for months, like I know I easily could, I’m going to rid my mind of all things Reeve Sawyer and jump headfirst into my work. After all, I am on deadline.
Emilia, sixteen years old
I dig the pencil against the paper, so deep that it nearly tears through, but I don’t care. I continue to let my hand move, erratically and without direction, just until there are enough markings to scratch out the image I drew below them.
I’m angry. I’m so bloody angry at everything. I’m angry that I’m sixteen, that my parents are protective, that I can’t go out like everyone else, but mostly, I’m angry at myself. Angry that my stupid crush on Reeve Sawyer has reduced me to a puddle of tears and a destructive, pencil-wielding nightmare.
A tap at my door pulls my attention away from the image, or what is left of it anyway. Quickly wiping under my eyes, I spot my mother, her strawberry-blonde hair, slightly lighter than my own, piled atop her head. Light lines dance across her face, just hinting that her age is over forty. Big brown eyes that mirror my own find mine across the room, and she doesn’t have to say anything. I burst into tears as she walks over, still wearing her floral apron from the kitchen.
“It won’t always feel like this, Emilia,” she tells me, wrapping her familiar arms around my waist and pulling my head into her lap.
I try to stop crying, feeling beyond utterly ridiculous at the whole thing, but the tears won’t end. You know that feeling? When you’re holding on by a thread, even over something so stupid and trivial, and all it takes is one look, one touch for you to crash. Like a jar of marbles thrown against a concrete sidewalk. You shatter, all your insides and pieces flying everywhere. Eventually you can pick them up again, right yourself, but sometimes you have to let it out first.
“It’s stupid,” I mutter into her lap, the scent of apples and cinnamon clinging to her. The scent of comfort, of my mum.
“Nothing you ever feel is stupid, my girl. It’s completely normal to have a crush, especially on a handsome boy like Reeve. But you need to remember, you’re both at different stages of your life right now. He’s in the middle of his uni degree and you’re still at school. There is so much time ahead of you.”
Sniffing, I look up at her. “How did you know these tears were about him? I could be crying over anything.”
Gazing down at me, she smiles softly. It’s gentle and makes my heart hurt.
“Mummies just know these things, my darling. You will understand that someday.”
Turning my head, I burrow back into her, feeling like a small child again but not letting it bother me in the slightest.
She sits with me, stroking my hair for a while until I sit up, her presence doing that thing that only mothers can do. Making everything better.
After she stands, she runs her hands across my face lovingly. “It will all work out.” I nod, unsure but deciding to take her word for it.
She stops just at the door before turning back to me. “And one more thing—don’t let some boy make you destroy your art. You drew that for a reason.” She nods toward the now-scratched-out image of Reeve. “It means something. Don’t let your anger destroy your beauty, Emilia. You have so much to give.”
With that she slips out of my room, leaving me and my sketchpad behind. I don’t hesitate to pick up the pencil, turning to a new page. And once more, I begin to draw.
My mind snaps out of the memory like an elastic breaking, my mother’s words so fresh in my mind. It took me years to get to the place where I could think about her without bursting into tears, but once I got there, the relief was immense. Small things I’d begun to forget about her came back to me, little memories or sayings. This memory in particular I hadn’t thought about in years. But like a mother’s wisdom, it still rings true all this time later.