Little Fires Everywhere(75)

“You’ll always be sad about this,” Mia said softly. “But it doesn’t mean you made the wrong choice. It’s just something that you have to carry.” She sat Lexie up gently and gave her a pat on the shoulder, then bent to pick up the empty mug.

“But do you think I made the wrong choice?” Lexie persisted. She felt sure Mia would know.

Mia paused, one hand on the doorknob. “I don’t know, Lexie,” she said. “I think you’re the only one who can know that.” The door closed softly behind her.




When Lexie opened her eyes, it was early morning. There was no sign of anyone, but someone had turned the lamp off, and someone had set a glass of water at her bedside.

Pearl was in the kitchen, eating a bowl of cereal.

“You look better,” she said to Lexie. “You okay?”

“Getting there.” Lexie settled herself gingerly onto the other mismatched chair opposite Pearl. “Where’s your mom?”

“At your house. She went over to clean early. She’s doing lunch shift at the restaurant today.” Pearl suddenly remembered Lexie’s views on the McCullough case and decided not to mention the reason for the unusual schedule: Bebe was meeting with her lawyer to prepare for the hearing, which was starting in less than two weeks, and had asked Mia to cover for her at work. Instead she nudged the box of cereal toward Lexie, who tipped it toward her and took a handful.

“Did she sleep on the floor?”

“With me.”

“Sorry.”

Pearl shrugged. “It’s okay. We’re used to it. Sometimes we don’t have space for two beds.” She slid a bowl across the table. “Don’t eat it out of the box, pour some out. Freak.” Lexie seemed much younger somehow, and she couldn’t tell if it was the morning light, soft and pale yellow, or Lexie herself—no makeup, hair loose around her face—or the strangeness of this moment, of Lexie breakfasting in her kitchen, of what they’d been through together the day before.

“Your mom was really nice to me last night.” Lexie stirred the cereal in her bowl.

“My mom is nice,” Pearl said, with a prickle of pride.

“I always thought she didn’t like me.”

“Well.” Pearl considered. She, too, had had this feeling, but could sense now that something had shifted. “I don’t think you knew each other.”

“You think she likes me now?” Lexie asked at last.

“Maybe.” Pearl grinned, and Lexie got up, slung an arm around her, and kissed her on the cheek.

The night before, as they lay side by side in Pearl’s little twin bed, Mia had reached out to rub her daughter’s back, something she hadn’t done in years. When Pearl had been young, they had often shared a bed: it was easier to find one mattress than two, of course, but there had also been an intense comfort in being close together, like small animals sheltered deep in their den. As Pearl had grown taller, sharing a bed became less and less feasible, and it had been a long time since they’d lain together this way.

“Poor Lexie,” Mia murmured. “Such a hard place to be in.” There was something she felt she needed to say, but she wasn’t sure how, and after a moment she simply plunged in. “Are you—do you—” She paused. “We’ve never really had this talk before.”

Pearl pulled away and flopped abruptly onto her back. “Oh my god, Mom. Let’s not do this.”

“I just want to make sure you know how to be careful.” Mia rubbed a scratch on her thumbnail. She’d nicked it the day before, working on something. “I know you and Moody are very close.”

Beside her she felt Pearl’s whole body go very still, then, just as suddenly, relax again.

“Mom,” Pearl said. “Moody and I are just friends.”

“But maybe someday you’ll want to be more. I know how it goes—” Mia stopped. She didn’t, she realized suddenly; she didn’t know how it went, not at all. As a teenager she’d had plenty of friends, some of them boys—but none as close as the friendship between her daughter and Moody seemed to be. They were together constantly, it seemed; they finished each other’s sentences, they talked in a patois of inside jokes and shared references that sometimes she barely understood. More than once she’d seen Pearl lean over carelessly to fix Moody’s collar; just the other day, she’d seen Moody reach out to pluck a wayward leaf from Pearl’s hair with such tenderness that she could call it nothing other than love. But she herself had never felt that way about anyone, not as a teenager, not in art school, not since. It occurred to her that except for her brother, when they were children, she’d never seen a man naked. More than that: she’d never touched anyone and felt that warmth, that electric tension at the nearness of someone else. The only thing that had given her that feeling had been art—and then, of course, Pearl. She had nothing useful to say about this, she thought, and the silence billowed out between them.

“Mom.” In the dark Mia couldn’t tell if Pearl was serious or smiling. “You don’t need to worry. I promise. There’s nothing between Moody and me.” She rolled over onto her side, away from Mia, the pillow now muffling her voice. “And I got an A in health class. I know all this stuff.” It was the truth, she told herself; not a single word she’d said had been a lie. Omission, Pearl decided, was not the same as lying. She felt Mia begin to rub her back again, the same gentle caress that, as a child, had told her she was not alone, that her mother was there, which meant that everything was all right. As it had all those years ago, it put her to sleep almost at once.