I usually go for vintage clothes, as they tend to have silhouettes that flatter my figure. But this shows off my boobs, hips, and ass to perfection.
I can’t wait for Felix to see me in it.
Lauren goes to shower and I flat iron my hair into smooth waves I hope a certain boy will find alluring. I’m interrupted by a FaceTime call from my dad.
I go out on the terrace to answer it. When I accept the call, he looks haggard.
Old.
It breaks my heart.
“Hey dear,” he says. “You look pretty.”
“Thanks. This cruise is so fancy. I have to doll myself up to fit in.”
“Had any fun adventures?”
I tell him about the cooking class and the otherworldly pineapple. I leave out Felix. After my meltdown over my breakup, my parents fear for me in any romantic relationship.
Their divorce no doubt has something to do with it. They’d been together since college and seemed happy my whole life. Until somehow, last year, they fell apart.
I still don’t understand why. No one cheated or had a midlife crisis. It just… stopped working. Just like that.
They had one of those love-at-first-meeting stories everyone longs for. It always gave me confidence in my own tendency to fall fast and hard. After all, they did, and for forty years, they were rock solid.
Now that seems naive.
It terrifies me that people can fall out of love as quickly as they can fall into it.
But it shouldn’t surprise me.
Not after what happened with Gabe.
Mom and Dad have already separated—they sold my childhood home in Burlington a few months ago and both moved to smaller apartments. Now the only thing left to do is empty out the cottage, put it on the market, and finalize their divorce.
They’ve divided up the month—two weeks each alone there to take what they want and split up the packing. Dad got the first shift.
“How are you holding up?” I ask him.
He blows out a breath. “A lot to do,” he says.
He’s dodging the real question. My parents are New Englanders to their core—kind and loving, but undemonstrative and uncomfortable talking about anything too personal. I credit my friendship with Lauren for helping me to open up. Sheonlywants to talk about the personal.
“I don’t want to bother you on your vacation,” Dad says, “but I wanted to check in because I’m going to start packing up your room tomorrow. Wondering what you want to hold on to.”
He doesn’t need to tell me it can’t be much. Both of my parents’ apartments are small one-bedrooms. And there is not the slightest extra inch of storage space in my studio.
“Can you keep my quilt from Granny?” I ask.
“Of course. Anything else?”
“Hmm, let me think.”
I try to picture the room—the antique dollhouse my great-grandfather made for my mom. The handsewn cushions on the window seat. The old brass bed in which I have spent so many hours and days and weeks of my life reading.
The books.
My entire youth’s worth of books, many passed down over generations. Some so beloved that I have parts of them memorized.
