I have the insane urge to laugh, because he looks exactly like Andrew all those weeks ago in the nightclub.
Good, I think.
“Don’t look so surprised,” I tell Brendan. “This is who I am. The girl who called you Barfy Brendan. Nothing’s changed.”
Brendan shakes his head, and the muscles in his neck strain. “That’s not true. I’ve seen the real you.”
Now I do laugh. Because I know what he needs to hear. “You’ve seen an act,” I say patronizingly, recalling his words in his bedroom weeks ago. Forcing the derision physically hurts, but I know what I need to do for him to forget me the way we both deserve. “You said it yourself, Brendan, remember? I used you.” He flinches the way I expected, his eyes wounded. “I’ve been pretending to be someone I’m not to try to feel better about who I am. Only it wasn’t for Andrew. It was for myself. This”—I gesture to the splintering thing between us—“it wasn’t real.”
The words hit him one after the other, and he shatters. I soak up the pain, letting it under my skin until I feel nothing else.
For years I’ve been terrified of ending up like my mother. I never knew what it’d feel like to become my father instead. Now I do.
I walk past Brendan. He doesn’t follow.
Forty
MY STREET IS SILENT WHEN THE LYFT driver drops me off two hours later. I spent the rest of the dance locked in a belowdecks bathroom until the boat docked back in the harbor. I snuck off before anyone could find me, walked to the nearest bus stop, spent an hour on Los Angeles’ terrible mass transit system, then called a Lyft when I was close enough to home that the fare wouldn’t clean out my bank account.
I’m freezing and my feet are numb by the time I walk through my front door.
“Cameron?”
Every light in the living room is on. My mom’s behind the kitchen counter, a cup of coffee in her hands like she waited up for me. That would be a first.
“How was the dance?” she asks.
I kick off my shoes, wincing when my stiff feet flatten on the carpet. “Great,” I mutter, walking through the living room toward the hallway. The last thing I want right now is to be sucked into a conversation about whatever’s keeping my mom up this late.
“I heard about the internship,” she says when I’m past the kitchen. I still. “I think we should talk about it. Are you okay?”
I gape at her. She’s never asked me that question before. Not when Dad didn’t call to say he’d be in town before the PTA meeting, or when he ignored the birthday party invitation I sent him in third grade. I didn’t think she even knew about the internship. My mind spins, searching for her motivation, something to explain her sudden interest in my feelings. Undoubtedly, it’s connected to her relationship with him. She’s got some new plan, some messy hope. I want nothing to do with it. I have zero interest in hearing how their love is “true” and “worth the hard work.”
“I’m fine,” I say. “I don’t need to talk about this with you.”
She sets her mug down with a sharp clack. “I’d like to discuss it anyway.”
Her voice is oddly authoritative, but I’m not in the mood. “Yeah, no thank you,” I say, walking to my room.
“I’m the parent here, and I—”
I whirl. “You’re the parent? Since when?”
“Cameron,” she says, low. A warning.
Not tonight. I’m not holding my tongue. Not now. This night has been a perfect storm of disappointments, and I’m tired of sheltering her from the truth. “Were you the parent when I was keeping track of our bills? When I had to find money for school supplies?” I step closer to her. “What about when you sat on the couch for days on end and I cleaned the house, did your laundry, made our meals? When were you the parent, Mom?”
Her eyes narrow. I’m not interested in whatever sorry excuse I know she’s preparing. I’m done pretending my life is something I can fix with a list and hard work. There’s no reason to hide how broken this home is—how she’s run it utterly into the ground.
“The only time you are a parent,” I continue, “is when it brings you closer to your ex. I know you’ve only kept me around in hopes of finally achieving your great dream of marrying my father. Admit it. You never wanted me for anything else.” The accusations spill from me, fresh and furious, fears I’ve never voiced aloud. The heart of every doubt and insecurity that’s ever weighed me down—that between the only two parents I have, nobody’s ever wanted me.
I wait for her weak denial, her excuses, the explanations I’ve heard a hundred times before. She closes her eyes the way I’ve watched her do in dressing rooms, and I figure she’s getting into whatever character she hopes will win my sympathy.
Instead, opening her eyes, she only leaves for the hallway.
I exhale a sigh. Unbelievable. She’s an actress, and she won’t even bother to play the part of the devoted mother. She won’t even pretend I’m more to her than leverage with my father.
I walk to the front door, where I grab my running shoes. I don’t care that I’m in my winter formal dress. I don’t care that it’s one in the morning and I have nowhere to go. I perch on the end of the couch, pulling one shoe on, disregarding my lack of socks and mindlessly doing up the laces.
Mom walks back into the room.
I keep my eyes on the laces of my shoes. Reaching for my jacket on the couch, I refuse to spare her even half a glance until she steps right up to me, shoving a small black box under my nose.
I pause and look up at her. Her eyes are a maelstrom, a combination of uncertainty and despair and even a little indignation. She gestures for me to open the box.
I do.
Inside is a huge diamond ring.
“He didn’t want it back,” she says. “It never felt right to sell it.”
“What is this?” I ask, hearing the wobble in my voice. But I know.
“Your father proposed to me when I found out I was pregnant with you,” she says, and the whole world tilts.
Realization rips through me, upending the carefully crafted order by which I’ve structured my life. I’ve always known my mother pined for a man who would never have her, that she was too weak to ever put herself first. They’re truths that have shaped me in ways I don’t like to admit, making me cynical, detached, skeptical of sharing my heart. I was wrong. About her. About everything.
“I wanted him, too,” she continues. “I’ve always wanted him. You know that,” she adds with a sardonic twist of her lips. “He wanted us to be a family. Which . . . is why I said no.”
I feel a tear slip down my cheek. “What?” I ask softly, like this could all crumble if I speak too loudly. “Why didn’t you tell me? I’ve been chasing him my entire life. If I’d known he wanted us to be a family, I wouldn’t have had to.”
“You would have chased him regardless. He’s your father.” Her expression shifts. The combativeness fades, replaced by something softer, almost wistful. “When he asked me, my only thoughts were for the baby I’d just learned about. You were tiny, and yet you changed everything. He’s a cruel man, and I knew that—I’ve always known that. I wanted to protect you from the father I knew he’d be, from the pain and disappointment he’d bring you. That’s why I said no.”
Tears continue to drip from my eyelashes. I’m breathless, frozen, too shaken to reply.
“It was the strongest thing I ever did,” she says softly.
I stare at the proof in my hand. The proof that my mom tried, that she cared enough to give up what must have felt impossibly hard to abandon.
“I . . . haven’t been that strong every day since,” she continues. “I loved him even when I was saying no. Even when I knew what kind of man he is. I loved him for his charm, his intelligence, his confidence. When I no longer feared him being in your life, I gave myself over to those feelings. I know I’m far from perfect. I’m weak
to love him. I’m sorry, Cameron. But”—tears run down her cheeks, and her voice trembles, buckling under the weight of her words—“I will always be grateful for that one moment of strength when he gave me that ring.”
My mind begins reorganizing my memories, quietly and immediately. Every time my dad’s ever called my mom pathetic, every time he’s berated her choices—it was bitterness coloring his words over a rejection he couldn’t fathom.
I imagine what my life would have been like if she’d said yes. Not the idealized version I’ve held on to—him coming to cross-country races or taking me out to dinner. The real version. The honest version. The pressure of his presence every day, the figure who’d dismiss me even if we lived under the same roof. It would be years of conversations like the phone call we had today. Years of constant contact with the cruelty I’ve instead caught only from a distance.
I drop the ring onto the end table, wanting nothing to do with it.
“You’re the most important thing in the world to me,” Mom says, and her words bring fresh tears to my eyes. But not the bad kind. Not the kind that drive an ache down your chest, that pull the breath from you and leave you hollow. They’re the kind that release something long contained. “I know your strength doesn’t come from me,” she goes on. “But I’m proud anyway. Every day I’m proud.”
Haltingly, she walks forward and wraps me in her arms. I’m too stunned to reciprocate. My arms hang limply by my sides. I never expected pride, never expected love from my mother. It’s why I’ve sought my father’s approval, why I hungered for the slightest sign he saw in me a daughter and not just a problem.
“I’m sorry for the mistakes I’ve made,” she says, withdrawing. “I’m sorry for the times I haven’t been the parent you deserve.”
The apology unlocks something in me. I hug her fiercely, harder than I expected. “It’s okay,” I hear myself whisper. The moment the words leave my mouth, I feel a knot I’d never noticed unravel in my chest. And I realize I’ve had this backward, in a way. I’ve tried to fix everything in my life through apologies.
But it’s not just about apologizing. It’s about forgiving.
It’s about forgiving my mother, and forgiving myself. Forgiving her for being unmotivated, for being uninvolved, for being weak. Forgiving myself for falling short of a standard my dad will never permit me to reach. Forgiveness is the release that washes the poison from my veins, the anger and envy I could never get rid of no matter how often I apologized. It’s impossibly, beautifully easy. The only thing I have to do is forgive my mother and I’ll have the parent I always needed.
I hug my mom until I feel new again.
Forty-One
THE NEXT DAY, I MAKE A NEW amends list.
The first item is an email to Chelsea, my father’s assistant. I write her apologizing for being rude on the phone. One thing I know her day didn’t need was a second Bright yelling at her.
Then I write Bethany Bishop a letter. I apologize for the horrible things I said to her on the winter formal yacht. And I apologize for every biting comment, every cruel remark I’ve said in passing. When I’m done, I look up her address in the school directory and drive the letter to her house myself.
I don’t expect a reply. This apology’s 100 percent completely not for me. Not for any goal or agenda and not to ease my pain and guilt. Apologies won’t fix me, but they might go far in fixing the damage I’ve done to others.
I’ve just parked outside my apartment when I hear my phone vibrate in the passenger seat. The caller ID displays my father’s office. I reach for the phone, preparing myself for whatever he’s found to criticize now. For the first time, I’m unafraid. I don’t care if I disappoint him. It’s inevitable, and entirely empty. I’m going on a run with my mom tonight, and that won’t change even if he’s found a new way to reject me.
I pick up. “Hi, Dad.” I hope he hears the ease in my voice. The confidence.
“Oh, um.” Chelsea’s voice comes through flustered. “It’s not your dad.”
“Right. What does he want?” I ask. I reach for my purse on the floor and reapply my lip gloss with one hand.
“I’m not—” There’s a pause. “I’m actually not calling on behalf of Mr. Bright. It’s just me.”
“Oh.” I didn’t think my apology warranted a phone call unless—
“I got your email,” Chelsea continues. “You really didn’t have to apologize.”
“I did,” I reply. “It was wrong of me to yell at you last night.”
“It’s fine,” she assures me. “I get it, the way that jerk’s been acting. I mean, um . . . he’s not . . .” she stutters, no doubt conscious she’s just insulted her boss.
“No,” I say, laughing. “He is.”
Chelsea chuckles. “Well,” she says, sounding relieved, “you had every right. I’m sorry he hides behind me. That’s not why I’m calling, though.” She pauses delicately. “I hope you don’t mind, but I read the résumé you submitted for our internship and noticed your web design work. You’re talented, Cameron. I took the liberty of forwarding your résumé to the design firm that rebranded our website a year ago. They have an office in Los Angeles, and I’m in touch with the CEO’s assistant. He says they’re looking for a summer intern.”
I’m speechless. I hadn’t even spared a thought for what I’d be doing this summer without the internship I’d planned for.
“If I’ve overstepped, please let me know and I’ll retract your résumé—”
“No!” I blurt. It’s not an internship that will impress my dad or bring me into his life, but . . . I don’t care. I have my mom to be proud of me, to encourage me. The realization leaves me with that airplane-leaving-the-runway feeling again, weightless and thrilling. “Sorry. I mean, no, I’d like to be put up for the job. Thank you,” I say sincerely.
“You’re welcome, Cameron. Have a good rest of your day.”
I cut in before she can hang up. “Hey, Chelsea?” I take a breath. “You’ve only ever been a conduit between me and horrible conversations with my dad. Just a voice on the phone. And, um, I wanted to introduce myself. Hi,” I say, “I’m Cameron. It’s nice to finally meet you.”
I hear Chelsea’s smile over the phone. “It’s nice to meet you, too, Cameron. You know,” she adds, “you’re nothing like your father.”
“Thank you,” I say, knowing she has no idea how much it means.
Forty-Two
FRUSTRATED, I SCRIBBLE OUT ONE MORE LINE on the list I’m working on now. I’ve struggled for the past week to come up with ideas for how I’m going to apologize to Brendan. They’re uniformly awful. From the obvious—text him for the thousand-and-first time—to the cringeworthy—deliver a gluten-free cake with “Sorry I ruined your winter formal and was a huge jerk” icing. Not my proudest work.
He’s ignored my first thousand texts, of course. We’re exactly where we began, with him hatefully pretending I don’t exist.
Except now, I miss him every day. I’m not trying to get him back. I know he could never want the real Cameron Bright—not after what he heard. I owe him an apology, though.
In the meantime, I’m buried under the inevitable week-before-winter-break homework rush. I hole up in the Depths of Mordor every day to work. Today I have to figure out my Taming of the Shrew term paper. It’s going horribly, of course. I could hardly focus on this stupid play even before the worst breakup imaginable.
Two hours and two rewrites of my opening paragraph in, I flop back on Mordor’s green couch, my book falling closed on my computer keyboard. “I’m never finishing this essay,” I groan, rubbing my temples.
Charlie and Abby ignore me, playing their board game. But Paige, who’s sketching early designs for her Comic-Con costume—a porg dress—glances up. “For Kowalski?” she asks.
After winter formal, Paige didn’t hesitate to deliver a couple very direct speeches about
how I blew it with Brendan, the best guy I could ever hope to find in my entire life. But when I told her what I’d been going though that night, Paige understood. I explained everything to her. Trying to win over Andrew, my “self-taming” plan—which of course she’d kind of figured out, other than the Taming of the Shrew inspiration. Now that I’ve definitively proven I’m not into Andrew anymore, Paige has stopped doubting our friendship. We both know it’s real.
“Yeah,” I say from the couch. “I’ve done, like, a hundred rewrites. I can’t read this essay one more time.”
Paige drops her charcoal. “Give it here, Bright.” She holds out her hand.
“No offense, but you have a B-minus in English.” I cut her a look. “I don’t know if you’re the one to help.”
She rolls her eyes. “I was straight with you about your terrible UPenn essay,” she shoots back. “I’ll let you know if this one is trash.”
I hide a smile. “Fine,” I say, handing over my computer.
She starts reading, her expression growing serious. Her brows join in what first looks like puzzlement, then . . . worse than puzzlement. She sighs, she grumbles, she shakes her head at the page. My stomach sinking, I prepare to fight or discount whatever criticism she hits me with.
“‘The Taming of the Shrew should be considered one of Shakespeare’s tragedies, not one of his comedies. Katherine faces an impossible choice between being herself and ending up alone, or completely changing herself to find a partner,’” she reads from my essay, looking up with disbelief.
“Right,” I say. “That’s my thesis.”
“That’s bullshit,” Paige declares.
Well, I won’t pretend I’m surprised. “You read the body paragraphs, right?” I say weakly. “I think I supported my thesis well enough . . .”
“Cameron, you don’t have to change yourself in order to be loved, or liked, or whatever.” Paige watches me with careful concentration. I squirm in my seat, self-conscious.
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