Page 133 of The Tryst

Another thick tear rolls down her cheek. She shudders out a staggered breath, then lets go and swipes her face.

Then, she nods. Perhaps it’s acceptance or the start of it.

“You can’t change the past,” I say. “You can only change how you live your present.”

She manages the tiniest hint of a smile. “How did you get to be so wise?”

“I had to,” I say, then I nod to the club. “Want to get a cobb salad?”

She rolls her eyes. “This place has the worst cobb salad. Can we go someplace else?”

“I know a good diner in the city.”

“Let’s go there.”

* * *

At Neon Diner we don’t talk about boys or men, or the past. We don’t talk about the job she wants me to take on someday at her company.

Another time. Another time, too, I’ll tell her I have a meeting with Mia later this week to talk aboutnext steps.

Instead, we chat about the best and the worst restaurants in the city, about Ethan’s band and Harlow’s art gallery and Jules’s work casting new TV shows, and Camden’s burgeoning business.

Mom eats up every detail.

When we’re done, we say goodbye on the street. We part ways without her mentioning Nick, or men, or Beautique.

Perhaps it’s a new start for us.

And I hope it’s one for her.

46

IT’S NOT MINE

Layla

Mia hardly seems like a person with a typical office in a skyscraper, so when she sent me her work address, a quick Google search confirmed my image of her in a cute little brownstone nestled in the Village, surrounded by flowers.

Now, on Wednesday morning, I’m here at the top of the stoop on this quaint-by-Manhattan-standards block, pressing the buzzer.

“Just a sec,” she calls out from above. I look up. On the second floor, she’s busily watering plants on a balcony. Okay, that tracks too. A giant floppy hat covers her hair. “Women of a certain age,” she says, pointing to the hat.

That seems to be her mantra.

“A floppy hat is like Paris. It’s always a good idea,” I say cheerily.

“Let’s market floppy hats too!”

If Mia did, indeed, launch a floppy hat line next I wouldn’t be surprised.

A few seconds later, she buzzes me in, and I trot up the steps to her home. The door is peach—on brand too.

She swings it open. “Come in, love,” she says, then ushers me down a hallway to a staid door and into her office.

An oak desk commands the center of the room with two navy-blue chairs opposite it. The walls are a cool white. It’s a sleek and powerful contrast to her dancing-through-life style.

She pats the back of a chair for me, then takes the other. “I have a proposal for you, and I didn’t want to talk in public,” she says, firmly in business Mia mode. It’s a little jarring since I’m used to the breezy side of her. But then, Mia’s always had her public self and her private self. I suppose my mom’s like this, too, and so am I.

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