“So . . . don’t go to rehab and deal with my mother instead?” I offer up hopefully.
She says nothing, just glares at the television. The mood has soured, and I don’t even giggle at one of my favorite parts of my beloved series. It’s when Carrie uses her oven to store her shoe collection. It’s relatable that ample closet space would be more important than your ability to use kitchen appliances. I feel the same way.
“Seriously,” Adrienne asks softly, “when was the last time you saw your mother? What’s her name? Deb?”
“Deborah.” I cackle. “For some reason, she hates when people call her Deb or Debbie.”
“When was the last time?”
“The day after high school graduation.”
“You haven’t seen her since then?”
My face flushes. “No.”
“Okay, um . . . what about the last time you talked on the phone?”
“Years.” I swallow. “I don’t know, probably three or four years ago.”
Adrienne shuts her laptop with a bang, unable to hide her peeved expression, and I know she’s struggling with my answer since she lost her mom at a young age.
Quickly, I add, “I did write her a couple of times, but she never responded.”
“And what did you say?” she asks. “Was it an angry letter or a nice one?”
I shrug. “Probably a little bit of both.”
“Then how do you even know she’s okay?”
Remorseful, I shake my head. “I’m sure I would hear something. It’s not a big city; it’s a small town, nothing like what you’re used to. Everyone knows everyone and everything. If she didn’t call me in an emergency, a neighbor would.”
Looking unconvinced, she chews on her lip while I aim for my nail. “What did you mean about your mom making poor life decisions?”
“Forget it.” I turn the volume up.
“This is important, Sib.” Adrienne watches me like a hawk, ready to swoop down on my twisted emotions and claw through them like a vulture circling a dumpster. I know she doesn’t mean it negatively, but I’m immediately uncomfortable with her prying.
“I haven’t even told Holden most of this.”
“Why not?”
Swirling the water that doesn’t belong in the wineglass, I sigh. “His family life was so perfect. He gets along with his siblings; his family is überclose. There are no childhood scars of any kind, minus when he maimed himself from a bicycle accident when he was a kid.” I run a hand through my tangled hair. “Seriously, he is the poster child of a stable and thriving upbringing. His parents are still married, and beyond that, they are actually happy.”
“Or do they fake it?” Adrienne says. “Maybe to everyone else they are, but behind the scenes, they are miserable.”
“If they’re acting, they do a damn good job.” I frown. “Besides, why would I want them to be unhappy? I’m not trying to bash Holden’s idyllic upbringing, nor do I resent him for having loving parents; I’m simply pointing out his reality and mine are at opposite ends of the spectrum.”
“Whoa, baby girl, my intent isn’t to pick apart their marriage but to convey how many people hide behind a facade.” She snaps her fingers. “Take, for example, the people who post relationship goals all over social media, talking up their marriage and partner, while their close friends know one’s having an affair or they’re miserable together.” Adrienne shrugs. “You can control the narrative when you are the one who owns the rights.”
“Absolutely. I see it all the time with my clients.” I bite my lip. “But what makes me not want to confide in Holden is he can’t relate to my past.”
“But he doesn’t have to.”
“I disagree. If he can’t relate, he can’t help me.”
“It’s not Holden’s job to help you, Sib.” She holds up a hand before I can retort. “Hear me out. I don’t mean it’s not his duty to support you; I mean it’s not his past to reckon with. Only you can do that. Just like you said, it’s not his childhood, so therefore he can’t fix it or make amends with it.” She nudges me gently. “Only you can do that.”
I’m thinking about what she just said when she continues.
“Your father didn’t die in a car accident like mine did. Yet I told you about him not because you know what it’s like or have lost someone close to you that way, but because you’re my best friend and I want to confide in you and give you context about my life.” She gives me another example. “Race. You’re a white girl from the Midwest. I’m a black girl from Alabama. We both ended up in the desert. You can’t relate to my struggles. I confide in you because we can see each other for the individuals we are underneath skin color. You aren’t happy with who you are underneath your pasty skin.”
I tilt my head at her.
“You cover up your insecurities and past experiences with alcohol.” She tugs at a strand of my blonde hair. “And only you can break the cycle in letting drinking be the catchall for what you haven’t dealt with.”
“Adrienne.” I pat her shoulder. “You really are a smart cookie.”
“You better mean that seriously, Sib.” She settles back against the couch, crossing her arms. “Don’t play with me.”
Adrienne has known me long enough to tell that when I get quiet, it’s because the wheels of my mind are spinning down a path I need to explore.
“Oh no,” she teases. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”
“Before I tell you this,” I warn, “I need you to trust me.”
“When you say that phrase, it’s usually because you are going to do something asinine that is a huge risk.” She fixes me with a pointed stare. “Something that’s trouble.”
“You’re a tad dramatic.”
“I strongly disagree,” she refutes. “You said the same thing before we went off-roading down a canyon.”
“It was a bit
