“What is everyone doing for New Year’s Eve?”
Michael shrugs. “Not much. Henry and I usually watch a movie.”
“We are going to have a little party in our apartment if you’d like to join us.”
“Can I come?” Henry asks.
“Of course. If it’s okay with your dad.” I glance at Michael.
“That could be fun. I’m sure it will be better than sitting at home with your old man,” he says with a wry chuckle, and Henry grins.
“What about you, Agnes? Do you have plans?”
She shakes her head. “Not in ten years.”
“Well, we’d love for you to come to our party.”
A smile stretches across her creased face. “That sounds lovely, dear. I’m not sure I’ll last until midnight, but I will certainly stop by.”
I grin, thinking about New Year’s Eve as I finish my meal.
After dinner, Henry puts a movie on and settles onto the sofa while Agnes rises with a yawn and makes to leave.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay and watch a movie or something?” Michael asks, walking her to the door.
She squeezes his arm. “Thank you, Michael, but I’m tired and ready for bed. It was a delicious meal, thank you very much.” She leans closer and murmurs something else to him, her voice low, and as much as I strain my ears from the table, I can’t make out what she says.
“Oh.” He chuckles, his cheeks pink. “We’ll see.” He kisses her goodbye again and offers to help her up the stairs but she insists she can manage. The door closes softly behind her and he comes back over, beginning to clear the table.
I stand to help him clear the plates, and as I look around at the table where I shared a meal with my friends, warmth rushes through me. It’s that same feeling I felt when I arrived this evening, and I realize that whatever happens with Michael and my writing and everything else weighing on me, I’ll be okay. I’ve got friends who care about me here in New York, miles away from home. I feel like I belong here a lot more than I did back there, and that’s worth more than anything.
27
“Let me help with the dishes.”
Michael places a stack of dirty plates beside the sink. “It’s okay, this won’t take long.”
I stare at the counters dubiously. The kitchen looks like a bomb has hit it.
“Please,” I insist, suppressing the urge to laugh. “Let me help.”
He hesitates, then gives me a grateful look. “Okay. Thanks.”
Running the hot water, I hunt around for the dish soap and find a bottle under the sink. Michael grabs a dishtowel as I slide some plates into the soapy water.
“Do you miss your family today?” he asks.
I turn his question over in my mind as I scrub. I spent all day thinking I felt homesick, but now that I’m here in Michael’s apartment I realize it wasn’t so much homesickness as loneliness. Because I haven’t felt it once since stepping through Michael’s door.
“Not really.”
“You’re not close with them?”
I shake my head. “I’m probably closest with my younger sister, Harriet.” Saying this makes me smile. We’ve never been close before, but somehow, it feels different since I left New Zealand. “Do you have siblings?”
“Yeah, a brother. He’s five years younger, but we’ve always been pretty close. He’s out of town at the moment but if he was here we’d probably be spending the day together.” Michael dries a plate, then sets it down. “What about your folks? What are they like?”
I glance down at the book charm around my neck, wondering how much to share. I don’t often talk to others about my relationship with my parents, and I can’t help but wonder what he’ll think of me. But when I look back at Michael’s compassionate face, I feel the urge to tell him everything.
“My parents… we’re very different. They don’t understand me and they think me living over here is crazy. Last time I spoke to Mum, she wanted to know when I was coming home—back to the ‘real world.’ They think me pursuing writing is stupid. They always have. You know what my mother said when I first told her I wanted to be an author? She said, ‘oh, that’s cute.’”
Michael chuckles. “Well, that’s what most adults say to kids when they tell them what they want to be when they grow up.”
“Sure. But I was twenty-five.”
“Oh.” He grimaces.
“Exactly. I’d always known they’d never really taken me seriously, but one morning I overheard them speaking, and it—” I break off, surprised to feel a lump form in my throat.
“What did they say?” Michael asks gently.
I draw an unsteady breath. “They said I need to get my head on straight and stop dreaming of things I can’t have. They said I read too many romance novels—that they’re just full of nonsense and they’ve given me unrealistic ideas about life. They said I live my whole life in a fantasy. I mean… they aren’t totally wrong. I do have my head in the clouds a bit, I know that. I spend a lot of time daydreaming.” I huff an uncomfortable laugh, fiddling with the dish brush and staring into the bubbles. “Anyway. When you hear stuff like this from your parents, it’s kind of shit.”
Michael sighs beside me. “They made you feel ashamed about who you are.”
I give a small nod, remembering the cold, prickly feeling that washed over me at my parents’ words, at the disgust in Mum’s tone as she spoke to Dad. I try to push the memory away but it won’t go.
“Have you tried talking to them about it?”
“No. There’s no point. Every time I do, I end up getting upset and they tell me I’m too sensitive.” I shrug, picking up another dirty plate and dumping it into the water. Rehashing all this is making me feel a bit morose, actually. I swallow against the emotion welling in my chest. “Maybe they’re right,”
