Page 48 of Can We Skip to the Good Part?
“Thank you for saying so.”
“You don’t have to be brave for me.”
“I’m not.” She sat taller. “I’m realistic. I’ve seen the data. My chances of overcoming this obstacle are favorable, and I’ll lean into the sentiment.”
Max blinked, unsure whether to mimic her stoicism or shake her mother until a shred of emotion eked out. Surely, she was feelingsomething. “Mom, this brand of news would probably be a lot for any person. It’s a lot for me right now, so I can only imagine how it must feel for you, someone used to being on the other side of the prescription pad.”
“Nothing I can’t handle.” She placed a hand on the table. “I was brought up to be strong. And I will be. Oh, and here are our entrees.” She smiled politely at the server and her approaching salad.
As the chicken tagine that Max no longer wanted was placed in front of her, she looked to her right and absorbed the room’s activity. People were dining casually as if it were any other afternoon. In fact, she’d been doing the same just five minutes ago. She swallowed, forced herself to think logically, and press on, pretending her heart wasn’t pounding uncomfortably, that her world didn’t feel wildly chaotic, upside down, and, quite frankly, overwhelming. She and her mother had a rocky relationship, but no amount of interpersonal clashing could topple the tether she felt to her family.
“What do you need?”
“Grandchildren?” her mother said with a sly smile.
“You still have your sense of humor, I see.” Max sat back in her chair, ready to absorb and regroup. This was no longer lunch; it was the two of them going into battle. “What do you need today? Next week?”
The smile dimmed on her mother’s lips. “Maybe a ride to my treatment if I’m not feeling well. Your father will help some, but he doesn’t have the stomach for hospitals. Never has.”
“Of course. Do you have a schedule you can send me?”
She reached into her bag beneath the table and produced a folded, printed copy with Max’s name written on the outside. Her hand shook slightly as she handed it across the table. She’d come prepared. Max had to wonder if the schedule would have remained in the bag had she not asked for it. Her mother’s stiff pride had always eclipsed everything else, including logic. As they moved into this more difficult season, Max would have to figure out how to break through somehow. They had to be able to communicate freely.
“Thank you,” she said, looking it over. “I can clear my schedule on Monday afternoons. That should knock out a good portion of these infusion days.”
Her mother nodded solemnly. “Thank you. I know your calendar is so full, and I hate being in the way.”
“But this is important. Would you clear your schedule for me?”
“Easily.” She frowned as if the question was ridiculous. “You’re my child.”
“And you’re my mother. So, you get it.”
Another nod. Acceptance.
They ate mostly in silence, Max lost in a jumble of raw feelings she swallowed in the presence of a woman who looked down on emotion and viewed it as a weakness. Finally, when the credit card slip was returned to them, her mother met her gaze before signing. “I’m turning sixty-five this year.”
“I know.” She offered a soft smile.
“I think I’m going to have a party.”
“You should. I’ll help.” Milestones like that one seemed much more poignant now. Time was no longer something she could take for granted. It wasn’t just moving forward—it was quite possibly runningout. And for the first time, Max wondered if there was still enough of it left to bridge the distance between them.
TWELVE
Cracker Tray Confidential
Doug’s Books was becoming the equivalent of a cozy coffee shop for Ella. She’d set herself up at the shiny wooden table at the back of the store, sip the best brew in town, and watch all the locals stroll the haphazard aisles looking for the perfect book to take home. She vacillated between reading whatever romance novel she was knee-deep in or designing a cover. Three more commissions had arrived in her inbox after she’d posted the cover forNo Pucks Given. Two contemporary romances and one delicious romantasy, a genre she was quickly educating herself on.
“How are the Weepers?” Doug asked as he passed by with a stack of books to shelve. He wore a blue cardigan today that was a replica of the maroon one he’d worn the last time she saw him. He fit the part of bookishly cozy to a ridiculous tee and preferred to do it in various shades.
She glanced down at the book in her hands, realizing he recognized it as the selection of the week. “Scrappy. Ariana sent a message to the group that she had a bulleted list of grievances for this one. I happen to enjoy it and am prepared to defend its honor.”
“I thought the grump was a bit too grumpy. She should have let the happy sunshine give her the tour of the rooftop.”
She paused. “Wait. Doug. Are you saying you’ve readThe Plot Twist?” She held up the book and turned it to face him. She loved the pink cover with the script typography.
He shrugged. “I was here late one night, and it was the closest book within reach because Stevie always demands a register display and she’s bossy.”
