“Wouldn’t miss it,” Remi said, glancing at Mila. “Might be good for all of us to get out.”
Mila offered a tight smile. “Sure thing.”
Remi wrapped her arm around Mila’s shoulder. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”
Bianca turned to the coffee maker, her hands gripping the counter as it buzzed to life. She grabbed a coffee cup from the shelf. Her hangover was fading, but a different kind of ache was settling in—the one that came from having her daughter close by but a million miles away.
The sun was already high by the time they pulled into the dusty lot behind the flea market. The place was alive with color, mismatched tents, tables full of old books, hand-painted signs, and the sound of someone strumming a guitar for tips.
Zoe hopped out of the car first, her black tank hugging her slender frame, a pair of baggy camo pants hung low on her hips, a leather backpack slung over one shoulder. “Okay, I want vinyl, vintage sunglasses, and maybe a fake fur coat for the winter.” She laughed.
“Very practical,” Remi said, locking the car with a chirp.
Bianca adjusted her sunglasses, grateful for the fresh air and the chance to pretend everything was fine. “Let’s stick together for the first half hour, then we can split up.”
Mila lagged behind, arms folded, her expression unreadable. She had on oversize sunglasses and earbuds in.
They walked in silence at first, past booths selling incense, mismatched jewelry, and faded comic books. Zoe darted ahead, pulling Remi with her, leaving Bianca and Mila alone.
Bianca glanced over. “You always do this thing when you’re mad at me. The sunglasses. The silence. The distance.”
Mila didn’t stop walking. “Maybe because I don’t want to have the same conversation for the thousandth time.”
“I’m not trying to fight with you.”
“Then don’t turn everything into a fight,” Mila said, voice low but sharp. “Not everything I do is about you.”
Bianca stopped at a booth full of antique picture frames, pretending to study them. “Sweetheart, I don’t know how to read you, but I’m really trying.”
Mila finally turned to face her, arms still crossed. “Youwant to know the truth? I didn’t come early for Aunt Reminecessarily. I came because I’m not particularly happy about Dad proposing to Jen. I don’t like her.” She said it emphatically.
Her words sent shock waves through Bianca, and she wanted to ask why—why her daughter disliked this woman her father was preparing to marry? Was she jealous of having to share her time with Harry, or was it something else? What had Jen done to make Mila feel this way, and express it so emphatically?
Bianca’s heart pounded. The air felt too thick. Mila had always been perceptive, but she rarely voiced her feelings this directly. Bianca had assumed she was adjusting, maybe even indifferent. But this?I don’t like her.The words looped in her head. She wanted to press, to understand why, but a part of her was afraid of the answer. What if Jen had said something cruel? What if Harry had allowed it? What if her daughter was navigating some silent grief alone?
“I think it’s too soon for him to be thinking about marriage,” she finally said. “But I didn’t come here to fix things with you either. I have my own issues.”
Bianca blinked, the words settling like dust in her chest. Concern rippled through her.
“I just wanted to be somewhere I didn’t have to smile so much.”
They stood in silence as a breeze picked up, rustling a row of dream catchers in all sorts of colors hanging from a nearby booth.
What issues did her daughter, who was so carefree, have? She wanted to know but didn’t dare ask that either. Not yet, at least.
Remi called from a few rows down, “Hey! Zoe found a crate of old Prince albums—B, you’ll lose your mind.”
Bianca waved half-heartedly, eyes still on Mila.
“Thanks for the honesty,” she said finally, quietly. “Even if it stings.”
Mila looked away but this time didn’t walk off. “I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m just tired of … pretending too.”
Bianca gave a small nod, and they started walking again—not quite side by side but not far apart either. They caught up with Remi and Zoe. They were rounding a corner near a booth of secondhand leather goods when Bianca stopped short, nearly bumping into a tall, handsome young man—clean-cut, in khakis and a Marvel T-shirt, mirrored aviators perched on his face, and a fresh-squeezed lemonade in his hand.
Zoe nearly screamed.
“Bas!” She threw her arms around his neck. “When did you get here?”