Knowing exactly what you were missing was way worse than a vague yearning. It was the difference between an aching pain and a sharp, stabbing one.
If I’d known that traveling to Aotearoa New Zealand would lead to being welcomed into a loving family unit; falling for a man who made me feel sexy as well as safe, who made me want to be my best me and to make him smile as much as he made me—well, I would have traveled here years ago.
And I’d still have to give it all up.
This crushing sense of grief was why I rarely let myself think about the good times at Bossi. Instead, I hyperfocused on Paul and how badly he’d wronged me. That way, the grief had a red edge of rage that was enough to keep me moving. Especially when my social media was a living monument to it.
It was going to be much harder not to dwell on everything I’d found here in Woodville.
Once again, my mother had ruined everything.
“How much longer are you planning to gallivant around the Southern Hemisphere, Lysander?” My mother had asked when I’d answered her call in the Levitate parking lot.
Salutations were beneath Emily Ludlow.
“How did you know I was in Aotearoa?”
My mother’s big brain took only a second to process the unfamiliar word. “That must be the Indigenous name. You’re not an Indigenous person, Lysander. I would expect you to call it New Zealand.” She didn’t give me time to reply. “But given the size of the population, and the colonial landscape, it must be classified as an at-risk language—or an actively declining one. Therefore, it makes sense to encourage tourists and non-Indigenous New Zealanders to speak it.”
She was right, of course. She was always right.
“Te reo Maori is one of the two national languages here,” I told her. “English actually isn’t one of them, although it’s the most widely spoken. The other is?—”
“New Zealand Sign Language, yes, I Googled it while you were talking. Approximately 95 percent of the country speaks English, but year on, speakers of te reo Maori are increasing. Many families whose Indigenous grandparents weren’t permitted to speak the language now share households with children who speak it exclusively. That’s very interesting.”
I glowed at the praise. It wasn’t for me, exactly, but it was close enough.
“To answer your earlier question, I know where you are because I pay your credit card bill. I don’t know what the World of Wearable Art is”—this she didn’t care about enough to Google—“but it sounds like a heinously expensive juvenile art project.”
“It was an immersive design experience?—”
“Now, here’s the question I’m calling with. When are you returning to America?”
“I … don’t know.” My brain slowed as my heart picked up pace, hammering under my plaid shirt and corset. “I was going to … um …”
“Continue wasting money on this frivolous adventure, while the New York City apartment sits empty?”
“No—”
“I gave you the grace period you insisted upon after the unpaid thing at the Flossy, Mossy?—”
“Bossi.”
“—Bossy website ended. But unless you stow your cowardice and stop hiding at the bottom of the Earth, I won’t continue to pay West Village property taxes for a glorified closet.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’ve set up an interview for you with my old friend Norman Post—you remember him, he used to come to dinner. He’s at Brown now and has agreed to talk to you about your options as a mature student. I’ve told him you’ll meet him next week.”
“In New York?”
“No, in Rhode Island,” she said with exaggerated patience. “Where Brown is. They’re known for their arts and science, so some of your fashion theory may be transferable. You’ll still need to do all the language prerequisites, of course, but if you take Mid-Century, your name will help with selection.”
“But I don’t want to go to Brown.”
I didn’t know exactly what I wanted to do, but I knew it involved fashion and didn’t involve going back to college.
“Then stay in Aotearoa New Zealand if you must. But I will sell the West Village apartment.”
