“Enough, Mom!” Elle laughed, covering her wine glass with her hand as her mother tried to pour. “I’ll be spending the night in my old bedroom if you don’t stop.”

“Would that be so bad?” Her mom poured herself more wine, then tucked her feet under her as she settled into the chair across from Elle.

They were outside, the patio heaters turned on, the white lights her mother had strung in the trees glowing around them while candles flickered on the wood table. Sunday dinners had been a tradition ever since her father died, a way for Elle to connect with her mom at least once a week, though often they saw each other more than that. It had become especially important since her brother, Patrick, had been traveling.

“Are you going to tell me what’s on your mind?” her mother asked.

Elle looked up, cursing herself for being silent too long. Her mother was like a wolfhound on the scent of Elle’s silence; she knew when Elle was hiding something.

Elle looked around the patio, trying to articulate the conflicting emotions that had been stirred up by seeing Lachlan.

Locke.

Her father had loved the sprawling backyard in the San Diego suburbs. While her mother could never get enough of books, preferring to spend her downtime reading, Elle’s father had spent every possible moment puttering in the flower beds, repotting the plants that spilled from containers on the patio, refinishing the patio table for the hundredth time.

There were traces of him everywhere she looked, and she was still half-surprised when he didn’t appear, carrying a plate of undercooked meat, his big laugh echoing across the lawn.

“I just miss him,” Elle finally said. “So much.”

Her mother smiled sadly. “I miss him, too.” She paused. “But that’s not all of it, is it?”

Elle laughed, shook her head. “You never give up, do you?"

“What good has ever come of giving up?" her mother asked.

Elle studied her with admiration. She’d been dealt some bad blows over the past few years: the loss of the store, of Elle’s father, Patrick's decision to hit the road in the wake of his grief. But she only seemed stronger, even more serene for all that she’d been through. Her long hair was almost entirely silver, but her eyes still crinkled when she laughed, and there was still something youthful and elegant about her long neck, the straight set of her spine.

“Sometimes it’s better to give up,” Elle said. “Not because you’re weak, but because some things just aren’t meant to be.”

“What are we talking about here, Elle?”

“I saw Lachlan Hunt yesterday,” she said. “Actually, he goes by Locke now.”

“I see,” her mother said. “And how was that?”

Elle turned her wine glass in her hand as images of him flashed in her mind. The big shoulders, hardly recognizable as belonging to the boy she’d loved. The eyes that switched from brown to amber in the light, that still seemed to see right through her. The way his hand had felt on hers, the current of electricity that zinged along the surface of her skin when he’d touched her.

“It was… weird.”

"You can do better than that.”

Her mother sounded disappointed by her choice of words, and Elle looked up, smiled. “Geez, Mom, should we get the thesaurus?”

“You know what I mean,” her mother said, taking a drink of her wine. “Weird doesn’t say anything, and I think that’s the way you like it.”

“It’s just hard to talk about him,” Elle said.

Still?” her mother asked.

“Still.”

“How is he?”

“He seems good,” Elle said. “He’s… grown up.”

Her mom smiled. “So have you.”

“I guess so.”

“What is he doing for work now?” her mother asked. “I haven’t heard a peep about him since he sold that company of his, although his parents seem as busy as ever at Hathaway Holding.”

There was no bitterness in her voice, something that didn’t surprise Elle at all. Her mother had a way of letting go of things that haunted other people. A way of being at peace with whatever the universe brought her. It was a quality Elle lacked, and she often wondered if her dad would have been more angry had he lived, if Elle got her brand of grief from him or if she was uniquely unforgiving.

“We didn’t talk about his work actually.” Elle felt stupid saying it. Why hadn’t she asked him? “But he seems to be doing well.”

“Is he seeing anyone?” her mother asked.

Elle laughed, shook her head. “Are you serious?”

Her mother shrugged, feigned innocence. “What? I’m just asking.”

“We didn’t talk about that either, Mom. And it doesn’t matter. We had our chance. It didn’t work out.”

“I think that’s oversimplifying things, don’t you?” her mother asked. “You didn’t really get the opportunity to see if it would work out.”

“He showed me who he was by lying,” Elle said.

“He was little more than a boy,” her mother said. “He loved you. He clearly hated what his parents did and didn’t know how to tell you. Everyone makes mistakes. It’s not as if he’s the one who shut down the store.”

It made sense, but it didn’t change the pit of grief that had been stewing inside her since the day she found out about his parents. She’d known he was rich. Had known he’d chosen a state school as a way to avoid the privileged masses at Stanford or Princeton. But she hadn’t known his parents were the people behind Hathaway Holding until after her father’s death when he had come to her, tortured by everything that had happened, and told her everything.

“It’s not that simple,” she said.

Her mother finished off her wine. “Maybe it is.”

“Jesus, Mom!” Elle said. “Do you want to call him and set up a date?”

She stood, started clearing dishes from the table. Her mother put a hand on Elle’s wrist to stop her.

“It’s not about me,” her mother said. “The question is, what do you want?”

Elle pulled her hand away, stacked their plates, carried them into the house without answering. But the question lingered in her mind through dessert and coffee, as she made the drive back to her apartment near the store.

How was it possible her mother could forgive Lachlan for what he’d done, or more specifically, what he hadn’t told them? Because the lie had been a betrayal of them all — her parents and Patrick too. They had grown to like him, had spent hours discussing books and politics over long dinners outside, had taken them both to lunch or dinner when they came to campus to visit.

She searched inside herself, looking frantically for the familiar well of pain and anger that had sustained her in the wake of her father’s death. That had prompted her to work two jobs while saving for the new store. That had given her strength to sign the lease, risk her money, her credit. That had kept her warm during all the nights she’d slept alone.

It was there, but it felt further away than usual, an oasis in the distance rather than a bottomless abyss stretching its jaws for her. Something else had appeared in its place, something closer and more urgent: the memory of Lachlan sitting across from her at the Bean, studying her the way he always had — with interest, admiration, curiosity.

Desire.

That was what she’d seen on his face, the thing that had filled her with warmth, made her feel like the blood was moving through her body for the first time in years.

He still wanted her.

But that wasn’t enough. She thought of her mother, the question she’d asked after dinner.

The question is, what do you want?