Halfway to You(101)

Todd called me a week after the article published. I hadn’t heard from him since Thailand. There was no preamble, no polite small talk.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” That’s how he began.

“Todd, I am so—”

“Save it.”

I had never heard him sound so angry—livid. Though there were thousands of miles between us, I cringed. The article had made him the bad guy, and I had never intended that—nor did I believe it. I had rehearsed my apology a million times, but I hadn’t yet called.

“What were you thinking? Is that how you remember Thailand happening? You told me to leave.”

“I know I did. They—”

“Oh, Keith relayed the whole misprint explanation. What I don’t get is why you were talking about me in the first place. Do you have no respect for my privacy?”

That question stung.

Todd continued. “You suck everyone into your vortex and expect us to survive it, but Ann, there’s no surviving your bullshit.”

“I don’t know what to say,” I said, and that last word dripped with liquid shame.

“The bookstore was vandalized last night,” he said. “I arrived to broken glass everywhere. The front windows, the door. A copy of your article was stapled to the doorframe with the words ‘woman hater’ written across it in Sharpie.”

I sank to my mattress. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish.”

“I’m sorry, Todd.” I had spent my whole life wondering why other people were constantly letting me down, but maybe I was the letdown. The fuckup. The failure. Maybe it was my fault that people never stuck around. I was reckless, and selfish, and withholding. Just like my mother. “I am so, so sorry. I’ll pay for all the damages.”

“I don’t want your money. I want my life back.”

“I didn’t mean for this to—”

“You think I give a shit what you meant?” Todd asked. “I know you were hurting that night, but so was I. Not for the life of me did I ever expect you to air our business to the public like this. But I guess I was stupid to think that that night could simply remain ours.”

“Please, Todd, you have to understand—”

“I don’t have to do anything for you.”

The agony of his anger bored into my stomach. “Forgive me,” I said, curling forward. “Please, Todd, you have to forgive me for this. I’m begging you. I never intended for any of this to—”

“I will never forgive you. Never,” he said and ended the call.





MAGGIE


San Juan Island, Washington State, USA

Friday, January 12, 2024

Maggie pauses the recorder. “Wow, Ann, I—”

There’s a knock on the door.

Both Maggie and Ann turn, startled.

“Were you expecting someone?” Maggie asks.

The day has aged. They’ve been sitting on the couch since five, and it must be past noon now.

“I wasn’t,” Ann says.

Maggie’s hunger makes her wonder: “Not Matt with some food?”

“I wish,” Ann says. “But I forgot to make an order.”

The doorbell rings, and Ann hurries to answer it. Maggie stands, trailing Ann, curious but also distracted by the intensity of Ann’s story. After the past forty-eight hours of revelations, her heart is as raw and delicate as a peeled peach.

Ann opens the door, and at first Maggie doesn’t believe who is standing there. Perhaps it’s sleep deprivation. Or a trick of light from the sunshine beaming through the foyer skylights, casting a glare. But as Maggie warily approaches, the woman at the door only appears more real, and maybe she’s here, after all, only no, she should be in Colorado, so why, why, why is Tracey in Washington, standing on Ann’s front porch?

“Mom,” Maggie whispers. “What are you doing here?”

“Hi, dear.” Her body is rigid, but there’s a sheen in her eyes.

Ann looks just as surprised as Maggie feels, her face pale, her head cocked, blinking. “Tracey. It’s been a long time.” How is Ann’s voice so level? How does she sound so polite and unfazed?

“Do I get a hug?” Tracey asks Maggie, spreading her hands.

Despite her anger, Maggie falls into Tracey’s embrace, and it feels like home. Tracey’s soft arms envelop her, squishing her against a full chest and tummy, wrapping her in the kind of maternal comfort only the woman who raised her can offer.

When they pull apart, Ann interjects, “Well, come in. Please, sit down. Would you like coffee? Tea?”

Tracey’s mouth is pinched. “Water, thank you.”

“What are you doing here?” Maggie repeats, walking Tracey to the couch.

Ann fills a glass in the kitchen and brings it over. The three of them sit, with Maggie in the middle. Tracey’s hair is a bit staticky, piled up in a bun, and it occurs to Maggie that she probably came straight from the airport. Her parents told Maggie about Todd only three nights ago; Tracey must’ve booked a flight almost immediately.

“I can’t believe—”

“You weren’t answering our calls,” Tracey says stiffly, softly. “What has she told you?”