“Well, I don’t know about your mom,” my dad says, “but I, for one, would love to have you close by. You can visit on weekends. Go surfing anytime.”
I smile. That sounds…amazing. Exactly what I want.
After my dad goes inside to answer a few emails, my mom stays out with me on the deck.
She takes a sip of her sangria and taps her manicured nails on the table. I’m well familiar with this nervous habit of hers. Except this time, something jingles along with it. I look at her wrist. She’s wearing a white gold Tiffany’s bracelet.
“Is that new?” I ask, even though I know it is. Why did it have to be from Tiffany’s? It reminds me of everything I want to forget back in New York. I can’t bear to look at it.
“Yes,” she says. “Your dad got it for me for our anniversary.”
“Wow, really?” I ask. My dad has a lot of good qualities, but buying jewelry isn’t one of them.
“Yes, and I didn’t even have to pick it out myself. He just went out and bought it. All on his own.”
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
“I know,” she says with a laugh. “I thought that maybe he’d had a stroke.”
I smile. It’s nice to know that no matter how old I or my parents get, they always have the ability to surprise me. I think that’s important in life—the ability to surprise others.
I look at my phone. The high of being home is wearing off and I’m starting to feel more and more tired with every minute that passes.
“I think I’m going to go lie down for a bit,” I say. “I’m really tired from the flight.”
“Okay.” My mom nods. “But before you go, Alice, can I ask you something?”
I sigh and sit back down. It’s about USC. I know it. I look into her deep blue eyes and wait.
“I know your dad is overjoyed about you transferring to USC,” my mom begins, “and I am, too. Don’t get me wrong. I’d love to have you close by. We can go shopping and out to lunch. It would be really fun. I miss those Saturdays we used to have together when you were in high school.”
“I miss those, too,” I say. Suddenly, thinking back to them, I feel like I’m going to cry.
“The thing is that I don’t really understand why you’re doing this. Maybe that’s not my place. Maybe you don’t want to tell me, and that’s okay, but I just want you to really think about this. I don’t want you doing this because things aren’t working out for you in New York. Certain problems you can’t just run away from. It’s strange and hard to believe, but for some reason, they tend to follow you around. Even across three thousand miles.”
“I know,” I say, nodding. Though I don’t really know if I agree with her.
“It’s not just certain problems. It’s really all problems. What I’m trying to say…rather ineloquently, I guess, is that I want you to come back here for the right reasons.”
I nod. I’ve heard that before, that you can’t fix your problems just by changing geography. Changing geography would change a lot of aspects of my life. For one, I would not be living near Dylan anymore—my soon to be ex-husband. I wouldn’t be living in the same space as Hudson anymore—the love of my life, up until now, the guy who broke my heart, and the guy whose best friend I married. Oh, what a mess. I promised myself that I wouldn’t think about this anymore. None of it. At least while I’m in LA. I’ve only been here for a few hours and I’ve already broken that promise ten times.
30
I’ve spent my week in Southern California walking along the sand in Malibu, hiking in the Santa Monica Mountains, and eating outside multiple times a day. I think that’s probably what I’ve missed most about California. Eating outside is an important part of the culture here. Almost all restaurants and coffee shops have outside areas to eat. Some have simple awnings. Others have elaborate tables, closed off porches, and heating lamps. There’s no shortage of them in the Commons area near my parents’ home.
There’s something magical about eating outside under the bright blue sky and the sunlight. The food tastes different, too. Everything has more flavor. Every kernel is somehow more delicious. Over the last few weeks, I’ve been stuffing myself with every greasy thing that came my way. Oily French fries. Hamburgers glistening in fat. Pizza with different types of shiny cheese. There is something about the bleakness and the darkness of New York at this time of year that made me want to eat every unhealthy thing that any vendor or restaurant within walking distance of my dorm would offer. So I gorged myself, all in an effort to make the darkness go away. Of course, I was unsuccessful.
Here, under the high sky, which is so high that it looks like not even a rocket could reach it, I suddenly feel free. I don’t want grease or fat or oil. No, now I crave something healthy. Something green, definitely organic, and absolutely refreshing. Looking back on the week, the only things I seemed to have eaten all week are fruits and vegetables in a million different ways—smoothies, salads, fresh from the little containers from the farmers market. Just this morning, I had one of my mom’s famous green smoothies, which taste amazing by the way, and five juicy strawberries as big as my palm.
“Are you sure these are organic?” I ask. My mom is a stickler for organic produce. She would be horrified to know what I’ve been living on for
