*****
We drove up to Provincetown, which someone in college had once told me was the “gayest city in the U.S.,” even though it wasn’t actually a city. It was a funky little seaside town, the very tip of Cape Cod, an artist’s enclave, as well as a mecca for all things gay. Just a fun spot, overall, though for my mother, certainly a bit out of her comfort zone.
“Oh, my,” she said under her breath. Two, well-muscled men, wearing little more than leather thongs and flip-flops, walked by us, holding hands. We passed by another man dressed as a woman, in a long sequined evening gown and impossibly high heels. My mother’s eyes widened even further. “Let’s go in here,” she said, tugging me into a restaurant we were walking by. “I heard this place is supposed to be pretty good, actually.”
“Sure,” I said.
The restaurant had a distinctly European feel: minimalist décor, everything very modern. We were seated on high stools at a round table for two. “Abigail will be right over to take your drink order,” the hostess—who may have actually been a man—told us.
“Great,” my mother said, and we both began looking at the menus.
Abigail turned out to be a pretty girl with a pierced nose and very short, spiky hair, dyed bright pink. Except in the front, she had left her hair long and had side-swept bangs. Both her arms were covered in colorful tattoos, from her shoulders all the way down to the backs of her hands. I tried not to think about Graham.
“Now that’s quite the look,” my mother whispered to me after she’d taken our order.
“I kind of like it,” I said. “She doesn’t have to worry about brushing her hair every morning.”
“Now,” my mother said. “Let’s talk about something nice, shall we? How is your sculpture project coming along?”
“Uh ... it’s okay,” I said. I didn’t want to tell her that it actually wasn’t coming along at all.
“Your father and I will come to the opening. I want you to know that. It’s important to us that we be there and see what you’ve been working on.”
“Great,” I said, feeling even worse about the whole thing. I just had to not think about that right now, either. There didn’t seem to be anything safe to think about. I started ripping my napkin into little bits, wishing that I had just stayed at home in bed.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Graham
I decided to do what Tara said—I’d give it a few days before I got in touch with Chloe. Maybe I’d even decide that I didn’t feel like talking to her after those few days had passed, which was nothing more than wishful thinking. I couldn’t, in fact, seem to get her out of my mind.
I had her address; I’d go over to her house and talk to her. I’d tell her I was sorry and that I hadn’t really felt like this toward someone before and I didn’t quite know how to handle that. Maybe that sounded lame, but it was the truth. If she wanted to know what happened between me and Francesca, I’d tell her that too: absolutely nothing.
My phone rang as I was pouring my first cup of coffee of the day. I looked at the screen. My mother.
“Something is up with my car again,” my mother said. “Are you at work?”
“No, I’ve got the day off.”
“Oh, good! So you can come down there. Can you come down here now?”
“Just because I’m not going into work doesn’t mean I’m just sitting around on my ass—I’ve got things I need to do.”
“It will just be a few minutes, sweetie, please?”
“There’s no one there who can help you? I find that hard to believe.”
“If you left your house now, you’d be here in under five minutes. I think it just needs a jump again.”
“It sounds like you need to invest in a new battery if it’s going to keep dying.”
“Yes, I know. And I will. But for now, will you just come down here?”
I should’ve known better, but I agreed.
*****
My mother was sitting on the hood of her car, smoking a cigarette. Another woman that I didn’t recognize stood next to her.