When I woke up the next morning, I thought my mom was going to grill me with some hard-hitting questions about my future. I thought she was going to ask about what I wanted to do with the baby, or whether Marcus and I were really going to end up getting married. She did none of those things. In fact, the second I found her brewing coffee in the kitchen, all she did was hand me a pair of gloves and point me toward the garden.
“The dandelions came back,” she said simply. “Let’s get to work.”
One day turned into another. Each as unburdened and intentionally relaxed as the last. I had no immediate plans to return to Los Angeles, and although Amanda volunteered to come up during what had to be our sixth Skype session since I’d left, I was actually rather enjoying this little childhood regression.
I felt like a little exercise, so I pulled my mom’s bicycle out of the garage and took a scenic tour of my old stomping grounds, stopping at all my favorite cafés and boutiques along the way. The cashier at an old movie theater Amanda and I used to frequent still remembered me and asked if I’d scored any roles now that I was a “big movie star” down south.
I couldn’t help but smile at her enthusiasm as I walked out of the theater, munching on cold popcorn and thoroughly enjoying the long-forgotten concept of rain. Just the word “Hollywood” seemed to have an inescapable grip on anyone who was presently dissatisfied with life. It was the embodiment of that mythical horizon. The tangible magical Oz. Finally within their grasp. I knew I felt that way when I moved there. Like at any moment, I might walk outside and something magical could happen. Something that would sweep me away from the humdrum drudgery and take me someplace new. Someplace anything could happen.
I froze in the middle of the sidewalk as I passed by the window of a local drugstore. Behind the chips and candy bars were stacked rows upon rows of magazines. Anything you wanted—from fishing to smut. And there, nestled amongst the crosswords, a familiar face stared back at me. Stared back at me four times over. It was Marcus on the cover.
Without stopping to think, I marched straight inside and bought a copy, settling down on the dampened park bench outside to read. It occurred to me that I had never actually inquired about the article in Time. I had been too caught up with the women and yacht on the front cover, and Marcus had been too upset about his stereotype to talk about what else was inside.
I ended up sitting there for the better part of an hour. It was a fascinating read. I’d had no idea some of the things he’d done—some of the markets he dabbled in and some of the countries where he’d actually moved in order to start a business from the ground up. Unlike most other Fortune 500 CEOs, there was no financial scandal following him. No claims of unfair wages, bulldozing unions, or whispers of tax evasion. Aside from “parties too much because he’s too damn young,” he was squeaky clean. Clean and a little too perfect—I thought as I turned back to the front cover. No wonder people were trying to pigeonhole him. There had to be something the man couldn’t do.
I rolled up the soggy pages and slipped them carefully into my bag. Why? I honestly couldn’t tell you. But I locked and even tested the latch on my purse as if it contained something precious. By the time I got home, the rain had stopped, and my mom was sitting in the middle of the family room floor. A solitary island in a sea of pictures.
“What’s this?” I asked curiously as I waded in next to her and settled down.
“This,” she blew her bangs off her face, “is supposed to be my big project for the spring. A New Year’s resolution, if you will. You have any of those?”
“Oh, same as every year,” I wiped rain from my hair and sighed. “Not to get pregnant.”
“A fail!” she declared, throwing up her hands like a judge.
I shook my head along with her. “A fail.”
She turned back to her pictures. “At least you’re consistent.” I smacked her shoulder and she chuckled. “I’ve had all of these stuck and mixed together in those little cardboard envelopes and it’s time I sorted them and put them into books.”
I picked up a picture of Max and me with huge grins. “Oh my gosh—we’re so little!”
He was maybe six, and I was three, but I actually remembered the day. We’d gone to visit my mother’s sister in Charlotte, North Carolina. While she didn’t have any children of her own, she was incredibly excited about the visit and had raced to the local toy store and picked up a miniature rocking horse for us to play with. Trouble is, she’d gotten only one.
In the picture, I was gloating atop the horse, having obviously just been placed there by a regretful Aunt Lucy, while Max wailed on the ground, turning toward the camera with red, tear-stained cheeks.
“And a lifetime’s worth of favoritism begins,” I murmured triumphantly.
“Give me that.” She snatched the picture out of my hand and slipped it inside a scrapbook she’d labeled, ‘Greatest Memories and Greatest Regrets.’
“Oh, Mom.” My face crumpled with a frown. “You should just paste it right there under the title—it summarizes it perfectly.”
“You are such a little joker!” She pinched me a little harder than usual.
“Ha!” She cackled as she slipped in another picture of baby Max. “That’s what you think now. Just wait. Wait until it’s two o’clock in the morning, and you haven’t slept in five weeks, and you accidently put the baby formula in your hair because you thought it was dry shampoo.”
I stared at her in horror. “Please tell me that never happened.”
“Twice.”
Laughing, I ran my fingers through my hair. “Honestly, Mom, I’ve really enjoyed this ‘let’s not talk about Becca’s impending disaster’ time. But seriously—what am I going to do? I’ve known him three months.”
She set down her tape and turned to me thoughtfully. “But you love him, don’t you?”
I sighed and threw up my hands. “I don’t know—maybe. I mean…yes. I thought I did
. But then this happened and—”
“What does this happening have to do with you being in love with him?”