Chapter Six
Lila
One word is all it takes to rock my resolve even more than it already has been. One word makes me swirl in a sea of memories, makes me dance with him in my mind. One word on my phone late at night makes me realize the empty spot beside me in the bed is where he used to be, where he perhaps could still be.
One word makes me question it all.
That word?
Hey.
A simple “hey” texted from that familiar number, my favorite picture of him lighting up my screen.
This single word texted makes me realize two things:
- He’s thinking about me.
- I’m not 100 percent sure I’m ready to let go.
Because when I see that text, I think about calling him. I think about how easy it would be to let his deep, rugged voice caress me back into the familiarity of us. I think about how I could stop missing him, stop fighting this fight, whatever it is, and just give in.
The minutes tick by, too many minutes. I stare at his face, at the single word, and wonder how it got here. I wonder how the Luke and Lila who used to ride the same roller coaster ten times so we could get ten different snapshots at the photo booth got here. I wonder how the Luke and Lila whose first dance was in a rainstorm with gusting winds got here. I wonder how the Luke and Lila who had mapped out their side of the couch and their side of the bed and their side of the bathroom sink suddenly were the only side to all these things.
My fingers almost give in, my heart weak.
But then my head jolts me back to reality, like it needs to. I know I can’t succumb to him, or things will never change. If I go back now, I’ll be stuck in that limbo forever, stuck swirling in the world that wasn’t quite enough. I’ll be stuck always mourning what could’ve been if he’d been different or if I’d been strong enough to seek something more for life.
As much as I love that man who swept me off my feet, I also know what got me here. Zoey’s right. I need to remember that everything wasn’t rosy. Everything wasn’t perfect and, as I’ve told myself since I said yes to Brian in tenth grade for the dance when I really wanted to go with Zander, I won’t settle. I haven’t settled in my life for anything. I can’t settle on this.
So, I turn the phone over, my heart ripping silently at the thought of him waiting for a text that won’t come. I know he’s not guiltless, though. He made his mistakes along the way, and he has to know why I’m not texting back.
Resting my head back on the pillow, I try to soothe myself with thoughts of the future, with thoughts of how many things are going right in my life, and with thoughts that eventually, this will certainly be the best, wisest choice.
***
I sit at the corner table, the one completely opposite what used to be our corner.
“Where’s your partner in crime?” Dot asks, hobbling over to my table now that the crowd has dulled down. I put down my peanut-butter doughnut, looking up at her. Her red lips match her permed red hair, as they always do, and she’s wearing her Dot’s Doughnuts shirt.
I sigh, hating to break the news to her. I gesture for her to have a seat, and she obliges.
“We broke up,” I say, and Dot automatically makes a face like I’ve just strangled a kitten in front of her.
“I was worried about that. I haven’t seen you two in weeks. I knew it couldn’t be good news.”
So Luke hadn’t been in to see Dot either. Apparently he was putting it off just as I was. Interesting.
“I’m sorry. It’s just… well, you know what this place means to us.”
“And you know what you two mean to me. I was getting worried. When neither of you called in for your weekly deliveries or popped in to say hello, I was starting to panic. I miss you, both of you.”
She reaches across the table to pat my hand, and the guilt does really creep in. Dorothy—known as Dot by her customers and her family—has been a great friend to both of us, practically a grandmother. How could I blow her off?
Dot’s Doughnuts opened about four years ago, the brainchild of Dot herself. She always loved baking, especially doughnuts, and she just thought our town could use a shop. Competing with the chain doughnut shops, she even added a delivery feature to her restaurant, hiring her own grandsons to do the driving. Luke and I have been known to eat our share of doughnuts from here, popping by at least once a week together and even ordering delivery throughout the week. We’re hooked.
It's not just about doughnuts, though. It’s about Dot. She’s been there from the start of us, and she’s been more like family. We get her gifts on the holidays, and we always keep her updated on our lives.
Just not this, apparently.
“I’m sorry. I feel awful.” And it’s true, I do. It’s just another way this whole thing with Luke is throwing everything off.
“Honey, don’t feel awful about not telling me. I understand. This place has so much meaning for the two of you. But don’t you think the fact you can’t bring yourselves to come in says enough?”
“What do you mean?”
She smiles the mysterious smile, raises an eyebrow, and stands. “You know exactly what I mean. You two are beautiful together. I knew that from the first day you crazy kids wandered in here right before closing time. Do you think I would’ve worked overtime for any old couple? No way. I knew you two were special. I was excited to be able to witness the magic from the beginning. Honey, let me tell you, that kind of magic doesn’t just come along any old day. Trust me.”
She leans in to kiss my cheek before sauntering back to her position at the counter to wait on a group of teenagers. I find myself misty-eyed.
Looking over at the wall, I see the wedding picture of Dot and Louie, her late husband. I think about all the wonderful stories she’s told Luke and me over the years, all the times she smiled and talked about how lucky she was.
If anyone would know love, Dot would. She had sixty-two beautiful years of it. She made me want to believe in love, in marriage, in the whole lot.
But now, even Dot can’t make me see clearly. Even Dot can’t make me believe it’s all going to be magically okay.
I finish my doughnut and stroll out after saying goodbye, the sun angering me with its incessant brightness.
Dot’s words roll over and over in my mind, but I try to silence them.
I can’t look back. Not everything can be solved with a doughnut or with misty-eyed magic.
This is real life, and sometimes in real life, a girl’s just got to know when it’s time for a change.
***
“I want a major change,” I say, exuding confidence I don’t really have. I take a breath, parading into the hair salon like I actually am ready to let go of the long blonde locks I’ve been growing since high school.
But, as Maren and my grandma always say, a woman who cuts her hair is making a change. Perhaps the reason I’m not ready for change is because I haven’t cut my hair. At least that’s what I’m telling myself.
I set myself in Jacque’s chair at J’s Jazzy Cuts, our local top salon. Jacque just gives me a nod, scrunches his nose in appraisal of my ends, and spins me around.
And for the next three hours, he yanks on my hair, trims it, colors it, fluffs it, and styles it.
In complete silence.
If you think having a chatty hairdresser who just asks you all kinds of questions for hours is tiresome, you should sit in the silent chair of Jacque. For part of the time, I wonder if I should spark conversation, but his scrunched face tells me he’s deep in concentration, and I don’t want to interrupt the artiste. For another large chunk of time, I try to cough to cover my growling stomach, since Jacque—the only stylist in the place—does not believe in playing music. I feel more like I’m in my high school library than a salon. Not quite a day of pampering.
The rest of the three hours are spent with me in silent terror, my armpits a little sweaty at the thought he’s cutting way more than I wanted. I start picturing myself with a supershort pixie cut and wonder how that will work with my forehead. I also start picturing myself with a Bieber-like haircut, which also would not be flattering on the forehead. I shudder at the thought and start saying a few Hail Marys that Jacque is as worthy of Maren’s stellar review as I hope he is.
When the blow dryer is placed on the counter and Jacque silently spins me around, I take a breath and stare in the mirror.
My hand automatically moves to touch my hair but Jacque, who towers over me, slaps my hand away.
“Touching equals frizz. Don’t.”
His voice is deep and smooth, actually sending a shudder through me, despite the fact he’s basically threatening me. I slowly force my hand to retreat and return my gaze to the mirror.
It’s actually good. Like really good. Maren was right.
He’s given me an inverted lob, but the side bangs totally make it look chic and not fifth-graderish. He’s added in some dark caramel lowlights that makes the blonde pop and somehow makes my pasty white skin not look so drab.
I find myself smiling at Jacque. Jacque does not smile back.
“I love it. Thank you,” I say as he shoos me out of the chair. I jump up and down a little bit, thrilled as I do a little flick of my hair. Jacque glares.
He leads me to the counter and I hand over my card for an exorbitant amount, which really should be going to my move-the-hell-out-of-Mom’s-house fund. Still, a girl’s got to prioritize sometimes, and this was clearly needed. I feel like a new woman already.
Jacque, not really one for customer service or niceties, simply snatches my card, processes the payment, and heads to the area to clean up. He’s not exactly a five-star for friendliness, but his talent clearly makes it worth it. Next time, I’ll just bring headphones, although I’m pretty sure Jacque wouldn’t be okay with that.
I find myself strutting out of the shop onto the sidewalk, hoping there are crowds to see my new hair.
There is, of course, no one, and I simply retreat home, feeling like a new woman but not having anyone to show that fact off to. Nonetheless, I think the haircut is just what I needed to feel like I’m starting a new life.
Judging by the new hair, maybe it won’t be such a bad start after all.
***
By dinnertime, I realize the error in my ways and the miscalculation. It wasn’t a new haircut I needed—it was either a new living arrangement or a new mother to make me feel okay about the future.
“Oh my God, what in the hell did you do to your hair? You were so pretty and now you look like a Backstreet Boy or something,” Mom proclaims when she comes home from work and finds Grandma and me watching Jane the Virgin. Grandma already has the hots for Michael and Rafael, and it’s only episode three.
“Wow, thanks Mom,” I say, shaking my head.
“Oh, Lucy, stop badgering the girl. It looks good. I mean, they say long hair is good to grab, but I think short hair just says powerful. Men like powerful in the bedroom. This will up her chances of—”
“Oh my God, Grandma, please stop,” I shout, pausing Jane on a very unflattering facial expression and covering my ears with my hands. It’s too late to protect myself, though, from Grandma’s horrific observations.
“Well, I think it’s not the best. Did you go to that creepy place Maren swears by? You should’ve known better, Lila. I mean, your sister had purple hair last summer. Purple. What’s gotten into you two?”
“For starters, Mother, we grew up. And now we make decisions about our hair. We think outside the box. We mix it up. Not all of us have had the same hairstyle for eighteen years,” I utter without thinking.
Even Grandma Claire knows I’ve gone too far and groans.
Mom gives me her “game on” look. “I’ll let that slide,” she says, “because I know right now your life’s a disaster. But don’t take it out on me.”
“My life’s not a disaster,” I retort, although the words don’t really have confidence behind them.
“Well, that haircut is saying you’re a disaster. It’s just not flattering is all I’m saying. It looks like a boy or something.”
“First,” I say pointedly, actually getting up from my seat, “that’s kind of the point. I’m trying something new. I’m free to explore who I want to be. And second, I don’t think some lowlights and a few inches off is crazy or boyish.”
Feeling like a teenager, I stomp back to my room and shut the door. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I bury my head in my hands. How the hell is this happening? How am I back here under the gripping clutches of my crazy, helicopter mother?
Most of all, I wonder how the hell I can make enough money to get out of here as soon as possible. Either I need to pick up some more hours, or perhaps I need to get myself a good-luck-charm cat and join Grandma on Thursdays more often.
I try to take a calming breath and remind myself I knew what moving back in would be like. I knew it wouldn’t be easy. I chose this. I thought this would be best.
Listening to Mom and Grandma argue over how to unfreeze the television for five minutes, ultimately resulting in a swearing match—Grandma being the one to let the first vulgarities fly—I again ask myself what the hell I was thinking.
Was it worth it? Was letting my stubbornness and my plans and my need for signs get in the way of us worth it? And most of all, were we really that far gone, that far apart that I couldn’t have worked a little harder to make it work?
Was giving up on Luke really what I needed?
I lean back on my bed, staring at the same ceiling I stared at all through high school as I wondered when life was going to get good and when I was going to be happy.
Lying here now as an adult with my life falling apart, I start to question whether the problem isn’t life. Maybe it’s me. Maybe I just can’t hold on to happiness when I find it, or maybe I set the bar too high.
Or, maybe, just maybe, my mother is right—not that I’d ever admit it.
Maybe this is just grief talking, and maybe it’s going to take more than a haircut and a hilarious show to make me feel ready to face the unknown future.
Maybe it’ll just take time.
***
“No pity coming from me. I told you moving home was a horrific idea. I think you’d have been better to live in a tent by the river,” Maren says the next morning as we sip coffee. I’ve got an evening shift, so I agreed to go dress shopping with her this morning. Maren, like with all things, has decided to wait until way too close to the wedding to go dress shopping. I think she did it just because Mom has been on her case. That’s Maren, though—a go-with-the-flow girl. I swear she could be happy picking out her dress the morning of the wedding.
Our dress shopping venture is a secret because Maren wants a chance to browse dresses before Mom gets involved. We’ll go a second time when Maren’s basically settled on a choice so Mom doesn’t make her crazy.
It seems like we’re harsh on Mom, and maybe we are. I know, deep down, her intentions are the best. But she’s just always been one of those over-the-top moms. Seeing Maren kiss a boy in eighth grade led to a way too detailed talk about babies and pregnancies and single motherhood and, in Mom’s views, the destruction of dreams. We were always warned about ill intentions of others, the dangers of drugs, and the necessity to avoid kidnapping. Mom, the ultimate worrier, has her reasons. She lost her own sister, Julia, when Julia was only fifteen. She died of a drug overdose. I guess Mom has always carried that with her.
Still, it’s made her compulsively paranoid and compulsively controlling. This frustrated me as a teenager, and did not fare well at all with Maren. The two have had only about three civil conversations in their lifetime. I usually end up as the mediator. Such is the case with the wedding.
“She’s trying to help, in her own way,” I defend, looking around the tiny café as we sip our lattes.
“You tell yourself that. I mean, the woman needs to get a grip. We’re grown up. We’re going to be okay.”
“Well, you’re okay in her eyes. I’m a complete screwup right now,” I say, rolling my eyes.
Maren laughs. “It’s kind of funny because for all those years, she thought I was going to be the screwup.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“I’m just kidding, sis. You know that. Don’t let Mom make you feel bad.”
“Or like a spinster? An old maid? Because these are the words that have been not-so-smoothly slipped into conversations lately. It’s like we’re in the 1800s. Since I’m the oldest, I clearly have to be married first or face a lifetime of singleness. She’s been going on and on about Cousin Martha all of a sudden. Like this is making things so much easier for me. Like I don’t know I’m getting older.”
Maren groans.
Cousin Martha is our thirty-eight-year-old cousin who hasn’t married yet. In Lucy Morrow’s world, this is a grave disaster. Being single is a swear word in her language.
Of course, in reality, I guess I can’t judge her too harshly. But things are different for me. It’s not that I don’t feel like I’m not a successful woman without a man. It’s not like I feel like I have to be married by a certain age.
I just…. I do want that commitment eventually. I want a family, I do.
But I don’t think Mom calling me a spinster is helping things, at all.
“I honestly thought she’d be happy I broke up with Luke. He’s nothing like the guys she would pick for me, and it’s not like she ever really liked him,” I say, shaking my head.
Maren shrugs. “Maybe Mom hoped Luke’s singing would take off and you’d be a wealthy, famous wife of a celebrity. Then she could get her moment in the spotlight. Now you’ve dashed her dreams.”
“Who knows. But anyway, it’s just driving me crazy.”
“Speaking of Luke, have you heard from him?” Maren asks.
“A text. I ignored it.” I bite my lip.
“Lila, did you really?” she asks, as if she doesn’t trust me.
“Yes. But I thought about answering it.”
Maren shakes her head. “Lila, when you decided it was done, you were so sure. You have to trust your gut, you know? You broke up for a reason.”
“But what if I was being an idiot? What if I was being unreasonable? What if Mom’s craziness growing up just tainted my view of love?” I ask, confessing my fears for the first time.
“Love is never reasonable. Get that straight right now. And so what if you were, Lila? Look. Contrary to Mom’s beliefs, you’re not ancient. You’re young. You deserve to explore a little, which you didn’t really do. If you weren’t sure about everything, you did the right thing. Go out there and scope out the field. Have some fun. See who you could be as just Lila for a while. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“What if I made a mistake? I still love him, Maren.”
“Of course you do. You don’t just shut off love like a switch. But love isn’t the only piece of the equation. Seriously. And you know what, Lila? If you did screw up, if you do realize someday that you were an idiot, there’s nothing saying you can’t fix things. Love is crazy and winding and, quite frankly, fucked-up. Call me a romantic or whatever, but since Will, I’ve learned that you don’t figure out love, and you don’t plan it. It comes for you when it’s ready, and when it does, you know it’s the real deal. You know when it’s right.”
I chuckle, shaking my head.
“What?” she asks. “I give you this beautiful advice, and you laugh? Screw you, jerk.”
“No. It’s just that only you could use fucked-up and romantic in the same monologue and make it work.”
“Well, it’s true. Listen, I get to sound wise about love, since I’m not the spinster of the family. Just trying to help you out.”
I kick her under the table, and a kicking fight ensues. We laugh loudly, and a few other customers stare at us. “Are you ready to go find your dress?” I ask.
“Are you sure you’re okay with it? I know the timing isn’t exactly great.”
“I know. You bitch, how dare you get married when I decide to break up with my boyfriend. You should at least call off the wedding for a year or two for my period of grief, as Mom calls it.”
“Well, Mom would have me call off the wedding for a year, but only so your hair can grow.”
“You’re right. She scowled at it this morning. You’d think I got some pornographic picture shaved into my scalp or something.”
“Good old Lucy’s not a fan of the lob, apparently. I love it.”
“You only love it because Mom doesn’t.”
“Yeah, sort of. On second thought, this whole shopping for my wedding dress without Mom first might not work. I don’t think I’ll be able to pick one without knowing which one she hates the most, you know? What if I pick one she actually ends up liking? That would be devastating.”
“You are such a jerk. She’s your mother.”
“She’s your mother. I don’t claim her,” Maren says, and I smile.
Maren and Mom have had their moments, it’s true. I know, though, behind the surface-level anger is love.
Maren’s right. Love isn’t always this clear-cut, movie-like emotion. It’s freaking complicated and messy.
It’s just that we have to decide, I guess, whether or not it’s worth the mess.