Weather Girl(88)

“I can’t pretend to know what he’s thinking, but I imagine his reasons for not blowing up your phone might be pretty similar to the reasons you’re not blowing up his. He has a past, too, Ari. Do you think it’s possible he’s also feeling vulnerable, having shared everything he shared with you?”

“I . . . hadn’t considered that,” I say, which makes me feel like a self-centered piece of garbage. She’s not wrong. I was so focused on my depression in that moment that I had no space for any of what he was going through.

“So I think it’s up to you,” Joanna says. “Do you want that easy exit route? Or do you want to do the work, even when it’s hard?”

Here is what I’m certain about, the belief that has guided me most of my life: I don’t want to turn into the mother I grew up with.

The mother who can change, I remind myself.

“I’m not sure yet,” I say honestly.

Joanna’s question lingers in my mind the rest of the week.





31




FORECAST:

Clouds parting to reveal the earliest signs of an epiphany

“LET THE ARTIST focus on her vision,” Cassie says as she drags a paintbrush along my face. “You need to respect the process.”

My niece and nephew are constantly picking up random phrases slightly too sophisticated for five-year-olds—see: gentleman caller, although I’m trying not to think about a certain sports reporter—and it’s the cutest thing. When I showed up at the house and asked where his parents were, Orion calmly informed me, “Having an existential crisis,” and Javier hurried to the door, assuring me he was fine, that he was just anxious about hearing from the chef he was trying to poach.

Then the twins asked if they could “give Aunt Ari some tattoos,” and Alex and Javier agreed as long as I was game for it and they used washable paints.

Now Orion’s perched on the leafy green rug next to me in Cassie’s jungle-themed bedroom, focused on the lightning bolt he’s drawing on my arm. “Hold still, Aunt Ari.”

“I promise you, I’m trying.”

Alex appears in the doorway, leaning next to a wallpapered giraffe. “Things must really be bad, because Cassie is making you look like some kind of swamp creature.”

“It’s probably an improvement.”

“Oh, it is,” Cassie assures me, the brush tickling as it swipes across my nose.

Somehow, I made it to the weekend. A small blessing: my schedule hasn’t overlapped much with Russell’s. Torrance and Seth, on the other hand, seem to have given up any pretense of acting like they’re not madly in love. Yesterday morning, there was a jug of oat milk in the fridge with a heart-shaped sticky note on it, and I spotted them cozied up in Torrance’s office in the afternoon.

“Let’s give her a break from tattoo parlor,” Alex says. “Papa needs some help making pastelitos de guayaba, if you want to—”

They’ve already scampered out of the room.

“Nothing motivates them quite like sugar.” Alex sits on the bed next to me. I scoot over to give him more room, catching my reflection in the elephant-shaped mirror. And . . . yeah. It’s a good thing these are washable paints. “You looked like you needed rescuing.” Then he takes another look at my face and doubles over laughing. “I’m sorry, I don’t know if I can take you seriously when you look like this.”

I shove him. “Swamp creatures need love, too!” I’ve told Alex everything, and while he didn’t judge me as harshly as I thought he might, there was plenty of older sibling headshaking. “Just don’t ask me how I’m doing. Because that’s been my whole week, and I still don’t have an answer.”

“Well then, guess I’ll—” He makes a move to stand up.

“I’m just trying to talk about myself less! This is growth.”

“Who are you?”

“A complete and self-actualized human being,” I say, even if it isn’t wholly true. I’ll get there. One day. I think. “How are you doing? With Mom?”

“That is a good question.” He considers it, as though wanting to make sure I get the most honest answer. “I’m okay. Good, even. Trying to stay hopeful, with a dash of realism. I really want her to be part of Cass’s and Orion’s lives. Both of us do.”

I nod my understanding, hoping he gets exactly that.

“I don’t know if it’s because I was older, but I think it hit you harder than it hit me,” he says. “I’ve wanted to be there for you in all the ways I can.”

“You have been,” I tell him, because it’s true. My whole life, Alex has been the constant. As much as I can count on cloudy days in Seattle, I can count on my brother.

“Even when I’m preoccupied by two little monsters who never stop begging us to feed them?”

“Especially then,” I say, shifting my arm to try to smear blue paint on his face, but alas, it’s already dried. “This might sound strange, but how did you know you were ready for this?”

“The twins? We were never ready. It’s a myth. You can think you’re ready, but then they show up and throw your life into chaos. A good kind of chaos, but still complete and utter chaos. You could read all the parenting manuals and take all the classes in the world and still have no idea what to do when it’s three in the morning and they won’t stop crying.”