As much as I want to go, I hate the thought of leaving Mom alone. For as long as I can remember, it’s just been the two of us — a bona fide mother-daughter-best-friend duo, much like the titular Gilmores of our favorite TV show, albeit a slightly less caffeinated version. I don’t know what she’ll do without me around this summer. Frankly, I don’t think she does either. She has a few close friends, but she’s never been one for boyfriends, despite the fact that she’s a total catch. Dad died when I was seven, and she hasn’t shown a flicker of interest in another man in the decade since. All efforts to set her up — with the sexy science teacher at my old high school, with the cute waiter at our favorite diner, with the adorable golden retriever owner who visits her veterinary practice every few months — have gone to utterwaste.
I already had the love of my life, honey,she’d say with a rueful smile. You’re young, but one day you’ll understand. Anything after that kind of love would be a cheap imitation. Like wine afterwhiskey.
It still seems ludicrous to me — the idea that your heart could beat so utterly for another person, if they walked out of your life someday it might cease to beat at all. That the right someone could make all the other someones look like weak knockoffs, incomparison.
I’ve never had anything — any guy — come close to inspiring those feelings inside my chest. I seriously doubt I ever will. That kind of love is for fairy tales and cheesy romanticcomedies.
Whenever I say this, Mom just smiles in that annoying, knowing way and shakes herhead.
He’ll show up when he’s meant to, honey. Don’t rushit.
I usually laugh off her words, but I can’t help wondering… Do I even want a love like that? The kind that burns so bright, you spend the rest of your life blinking away sun spots, half-blind from theexperience?
That doesn’t sound particularly appealing, if you ask me. Mom may be resigned to a life of single-motherhood and celibacy, but I’m not. Not yet,anyway.
Maybe that’s why it was so easy to say yes to this trip. It’s my one chance at a detour outside the path that’s been set for me since day one.The Life of Violet Anderson: pre-written and choreographed like the script of some cliché teen movie I can’t escape. Ballet lessons and soccer practices and student council meetings and prom queen tiaras. A high school sweetheart named Clint, who just so happens to be both homecoming king and the quarterback of the football team. And me at his side, just another pom-pom waving brunette with above-average looks and below-average test scores. Destined not for greatness, not for adventure, not for anything at all, really, except the sort of mind-numbing mediocrity only those unplagued by imagination embrace with wholeheartedenthusiasm.
Even at seventeen, I know that won’t be enough for me. To never taste adventure on my tongue… never color outside the lines of a socially-acceptable suburban life… never amount to anything except the status quo everyone else in my tiny hometown always seems so content to charge toward with blinders on, like racehorses on atrack.
If I stay, I’ll never acknowledge the dull ache inside my chest that screams out in the small hours of the night that there must be somethingmore, somethingdifferent, something that will make my stomach fly up into my throat and my fingertips lose circulation because they’re squeezed so tight into fists ofanticipation.
So, I’m leaning into the winds of change. I’m walking away from that life, and I’m not looking back at the things I’m leavingbehind.
A tiny town, with sun-dappledstreets.
A farmhouse full ofmemories.
A promise ring from Clint on my bedsidetable.
And, most of all, Mom’s face, etched with incalculable worry on the curb of the Departures drop-offzone.
Reaching out, I grab her hand and squeeze. I strive for a light tone, knowing if I let a single tear trickle out, I’ll set off a show of waterworks to rival NiagaraFalls.
“You’re not losing me, Mom. It’s a nannying job in the South Pacific, not a colonization mission toMars.”
“I’d feel safer with you on Mars. Astronauts are very honorable. We barely know anything about this family you’ll be working for. They could be drug lords for all weknow.”
I snort. “Dramatic,much?”
“Violet, I’mserious.”
“So am I! You have to relax. Mrs. McNally never would’ve suggested I work for crazypeople.”
“Well. MaybeMrs. McNallydidn’t tell you the full story,” Mom says in a decidedly un-neighborlytone.
My eyebrows shoot up to myhairline.
“Don’t give me that look, Violet. She could have an ulterior motive, you don’tknow!”
“The woman runs the church bake sale every year. She’s not a criminalmastermind.”
“…or so she wants you tobelieve.”
“Moooooom.” I groan. “Come on. The Flints are a normalfamily.”
“Normal families don’t spend their summers island-hopping around the South Pacific, or hire an au pair for their five-year-old.”
“Did you swallow a bitter pill with your coffee thismorning?”