I tip sideways on my chair to reach the wall switch and flick it off, leaving the room bathed in molten evening light, gilded dust motes dancing in the air.
Turning toward her, I say, “Lo—”
“I know, I know, I’m being avoidant.” Lauren groans again as she sits up. “Okay.”
I nod. “Okay.”
“Okay. I’m going to tell you two things I’ve been… holding on to.”
“Okay?” I say quietly.
Lauren springs up, dashes over to the fridge, and pulls out the Viognier she brought. After topping off our glasses, she says, “First.” She wedges the cork back in the bottle and sets it on the coffee table. “Just going to leave that there. We’re going to need it—”
“Lauren.”
“Okay! Sorry!” She takes a gulp of wine, then blurts, “I hate my birthday.”
I ease back in my chair, perplexed. “Okay?”
“Okay,” she sighs. “We have to stop saying ‘okay.’?”
“Sure,” I tell her. “Let’s try, ‘Why?’?”
“Yes. Why.” She draws in a deep breath, then blows out. “Because,” she says quietly, staring down at her wineglass, “my birthday is my mom’s death day.”
“Lo,” I whisper. Tears fill my eyes. “God, I’m so sorry.”
A sigh leaves her. “Yeah, me, too.” She takes a gulp of her wine. “And now you know why I get trashed on my birthday.”
I absorb that, silence lingering between us.
Lauren gives me a pleading look. “Say something? Besides that you’re sorry for me.”
I open my mouth and shut it. This feels fragile.Laurenfeels fragile, and she’s never felt that way to me. I have no idea what to do.
“Thea,” she says, her pitch almost sharp. She looks desperate. “Anything, seriously, whatever is in your head.”
I rear back. “That’s a dangerous demand, Lo. You know that. My mind is a strange, unfiltered place.”
Lauren picks up the bottle of Viognier and sloshes wine into her glass. I have a feeling she plans to fill it to the brim.
I jerk forward and pluck the bottle from her. “Okay, fine, I’ll say something!”
Lauren meets my eyes, her grass green gaze glassy with unshed tears. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” I mutter, as I pour wine into my glass, then set the bottle safely beside me. I swig some wine then say hastily, “You told me your mom was ‘out of the picture.’?”
Lauren gulps some wine. “Well. Death does take you out of the picture.”
“Right, but obviously I interpreted it more literally. As in, alive but absent, and thus villainous.”
She glances out the window, toward the sunset, and a heavy sigh leaves her. “It would be a hell of a lot easier, if she had been.”
I turn and peer out at the sunset, too, thinking of my mother. Of how I both love her and hate how she’s made me feel most of my life. Of how strange it would be, losing that anchor, the person who brought me into this world, the grief that might come both for what we never had and for what we did. I wonder if I’d feel guilty or relieved, to be free of knowing only love laced with disappointment; if it would finally ease the ache that’s never left to be someone worth loving for who I am, not who someone wants me to be.
Lauren reaches for my hand and clasps it, squeezing tight. Her gaze stays fixed on the sunset as she says, “I’m sorry I lied to you.”
“It’s okay, Lo.” I squeeze her hand back. “I’m sorry she’s gone. But I’m glad she was someone worth grieving.”