Page 16 of Under Southern Stars
“Oh right.” She drops her feet but keeps scrolling. “I thought that was tomorrow night.”
“It’s…both, now.”
Madison slowly looks up from her phone, one eyebrow raised. “Both nights? Since when?”
“Since…this afternoon. I called Rachel and asked if you could stay tonight too.”
“Mmm-hmm.” She drags out the sound, eyes narrowing with teenage suspicion. “And this has nothing to do with the fact that you suddenly needed to run home and change into your good dress?”
My face heats. “That’s just…being tidy.”
“Sure.” She grins. “So where are you going? Hot date with a medical journal?”
“I told you. Book club.”
“Right. Book club. That’s why you smell like your expensive perfume and not like the ER.” She goes back to scrolling, but I can see her smirking.
“Madison—”
“Dad’s being weird about tomorrow’s soccer game again,” Madison says, quickly changing the subject. “Says he might have a work thing.”
Translation: Troy’s new girlfriend probably wants to do something else. I bite back what I want to say. “We’ll figure it out, baby. One thing at a time.”
It’s 7:57. I managed to get home, shower, and somehow squeeze into the one nice dress that still fits post-divorce stress eating. The black one that made Troy say I looked “too intense” and “intimidating”—words he wielded like weapons during our marriage. Words that, with every utterance, made me fold in on myself just a little more. Now, I think as I smooth the fabric over my hips,intenseandintimidatingsound like compliments. Perfect for tonight, then.
“So.” Madison’s voice goes carefully casual. “This date. Is it the paramedic with the accent?”
I nearly rear-end the Honda in front of us. “What? How did you—”
“Mom. Everyone knows. Literally everyone. Aisha’s mom works in radiology and she said you claimed some hot New Zealand guy in front of Dr. Lee.” She grins. “About time someone shut him down.”
“Madison Grace.”
“What? He’s gross. Remember when he hit on the student nurse at the Christmas party? She was like, nineteen.”
Christ. Nothing’s sacred in that hospital. “It’s just dinner. And how do you even know about—never mind.”
“Is it the same guy you said could call you anytime?”
My face burns. “You heard about that too?”
“Mom, give me a little credit.” She actually looks up from her phone to study me. “You really like him, huh?”
“It’s complicated.”
“You always say that.” She’s quiet for a moment, then: “You know it’s okay, right? To like someone who isn’t Dad?”
My throat tightens. When did my fifteen-year-old get so wise? And when did she start seeing through me so easily? Here was my daughter, understanding what I couldn’t say aloud: that I was afraid. Afraid of wanting. Afraid of hoping. Afraid of getting it wrong again.
The radio fills the silence, and suddenly a familiar beat comes on. Chappell Roan’s “The Giver” starts playing.
“Oh my God, I love this song!” Madison cranks up the volume.
Without thinking, I start singing along, word for word.
Madison whips her head around so fast I worry about whiplash. “MOM. You know this song?”
“What? I like Chappell Roan!”
