Pause (Larsen Bros)

“I love you too, Mom, and neither of us are perfect. Thanks for all you’ve done to help me get back on my feet.”

“When I thought I lost you in the accident, I’d never been more terrified.”

“It was no one’s idea of a good time, that’s for sure.”

“Still, no one could blame you for being a little defensive right now. A little on edge. But try not to let it become a habit. None of us are perfect. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

I sigh, wishing that it were that simple. Today’s been wonderful, but I still feel like I’m always just one breath, one moment, away from collapsing into that brittle, messy piece of work left over from the accident. I don’t know why some times it hits harder than others. Guess healing comes in bits and pieces. It stops and starts and takes you by surprise. Leif would understand all this. But then, Leif always understands. And right in this moment, I’d give anything to have him here to hold my hand. And that sort of weakness scares me.

I swallow hard. “You’re very wise, Mother.”

“Sometimes.” She takes a sip of coffee. “At least we’re open to being wrong and doing better. That’s a good thing. Most people never even get that far.”

“I love you, you know?”

“I know, sweetie. I love you too. Drink your coffee before it goes cold.”

It’s getting on toward sunset by the time I arrive home. Coffee turned into a glass of wine, which turned into dinner. Mom and I had a great time. Maybe it takes a while before you see your parents as being real people. Someone other than your designated caregiver and eternal judge. Someone capable of making mistakes and having regrets. Instead of just being the person who has to listen to you moan and groan and drive you places and who will hopefully take you in if everything in your life hits the wall. What it says about me that it took me so long to see her as a real live functioning entity separate from being my maternal figure probably isn’t good. But at least I got there in the end. Mom and I are more than just mother and daughter now. We’re friends too, and that’s beautiful.

I also managed to calm my roll and find my inner peace once more. Everything is okay. Everything is going to be fine. Probably. And that’s about as certain as life gets, in all honesty. Things happen. Sometimes they’re unexpected and painful and horrible. But I can’t go through life just waiting to get knocked down again. That’s not living. I will be brave and not cower in constant fear of the pain and turmoil life can throw at me. I swear it.

“Anna?”

I turn to find Ryan stepping out of his car. His expression, at first hesitant, soon turns into the usual set-jaw study of entitlement. We stand underneath the dogwood outside the condo building, staring at one another. And I am not smiling.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“I thought we could talk.”

The man looks rumpled. His polo shirt is creased and his chino shorts are no better. Quite the change from his usual immaculate presentation of all-around great guy. It’s kind of weird that I used to find him attractive. I mean, he is fundamentally an attractive person. People used to tell me how lucky I was, back when we were married. Gosh, your husband is so handsome and all that. Guess I just can’t see it anymore. Overlaid on the classic chiseled-jaw features are so many memories. Mostly recent and bad. None that I feel the need to deal with right here and now. Or ever.

“No, we’re divorced,” I say. “There’s nothing left to say.”

He shoves a hand through his hair. “Anna . . .”

“Divorced means I am no longer legally required to listen to you.”

And he actually looks to heaven at this. What a dick. What did I ever see in this guy?

“I’m not being unreasonable or irrational, Ryan. So don’t give me that look. Your dedication to being the actual worst is amazing.”

“Real mature, Anna. If you’d just—”

“No. No way.”

“You’ve changed,” he says, all thoughtful like for a moment. And whatever this change in me is, it does not please him.

“I’d certainly hope so.” I take a deep breath. “What the hell did you think you were going to accomplish by coming here? Seriously?”

Then he just spits it out: “Celine was a mistake.”

“Holy shit.” My eyes feel as wide as twin moons. “Did you just call the mother of your unborn child a mistake?”

His lips disappear into a thin pissed-off line. “You know I don’t mean it like that. But the pregnancy has made her crazy. She’s making all of these outrageous demands. This is . . . we don’t belong together, she and I. You and I, we used to be good together. She’s not like you.”