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In fact, he was the only one whose opinion I cared about in the first place.
I stopped dead in my tracks. Not a smart thing to do when you lived in New York and the pedestrian traffic was insane. Two people immediately bumped into me, groaned, and muttered, “Tourist.” I tipped my head upward and closed my eyes, anguished.
It was Row.
I was in love with Row.
I had always been in love with Row.
From the moment I’d first met him on the edge of the community pool, and he was a scrawny thing of a kid, and I was an awkward thing of a girl.
He was the reason why I was still feeling hollow even though I had overcome my biggest fears—Allison and starting the podcast. This was why I’d had sex with him when I was a teenager, before I had gone to college. Not because I’d wanted to get rid of my virginity but because I was desperately, pathetically in love with him.
And my love for him was bigger than any fear I struggled with.
I had fed myself lies. Wicked little lies to protect myself from disappointment and heartbreak.
Loneliness is safe.
You’re not in love with Row Casablancas.
This was just a winter affair.
You can totally pull off low-waisted jeans like it’s still the early 2000s.
Lying to yourself was like indulging in an entire bottle of wine. It felt great in the short term but was totally destructive in the long term. I’d told myself I couldn’t catch feelings, couldn’t fall in love, when all this time, I was already in love. An all-consuming, radical kind of love.
Oh shit. I needed to tell him. No, I needed to woo him. To show him how much he meant to me. A simple love declaration wouldn’t do. I needed a nineties movie–inspired homage to show him I was serious. As it was, Row had made it clear he didn’t want to hear from me—or read from me—unless I was all in.
And then—eureka!—it came to me. My grand gesture.
“Yes!” I threw my arms in the air, tilting my chin up at the sky. “Yes, I now know what to do!”
“Lily, honey, step away from the…special lady.” Two obvious out-of-towners sidestepped me, throwing an assessing glance my way. But I didn’t care.
I knew what to do.
My first step was where it all had started, in Staindrop.
Where I had given my heart to a boy who had given me his all.
And had forgotten to tell him that he was the one.
CAL
“Emotions”—Mariah Carey
I managed to spend the duration of my flight to Maine not crying on anyone’s shoulder or exhibiting any mentally unstable behavior.
I found Mamushka and Dylan eating pickles in my parents’ kitchen. Gravity was glued to Dylan’s boob like a magnet, suckling greedily on what appeared to be a full family-sized pizza nipple. Dylan looked gorgeous—like she hadn’t popped out a giant baby a month ago—glossy hair, flawless complexion, and a body that would make Elle Macpherson weep with envy. I was panting from running the short way from my rental car to the kitchen, catching my breath as I slouched onto an empty chair in my dining room. “I screwed up,” I declared.
“You’re going to have to be much more specific than that.” Dylan unlatched a sleepy Gravity from her nipple and handed her over to my mom, who immediately put her on her shoulder for a burp. They seemed to have a system going. I was glad Mom had Dylan and Gravity to keep her company after Dad’s passing. I also made a mental note to ask for a Tucker update. I’d been avoiding the subject in recent days, knowing Dylan found the subject uncomfortable.
“Row.” I grabbed the edges of the dining table, catching my breath. “I screwed it all up with Row. He’s the one.”
“Is this a love declaration?” Dylan picked up her half-eaten pickle, leisurely munching on the tip.
“Yes, Dylan, it is the mother of all love declarations.” I snapped my fingers. “Pay attention.”
