Six months later.
Staicie Blum was nineteen. She had earned her high school diploma. She had enrolled in college. She had quit the cheerleaders—not because she had to, but because she chose to. She wanted something else. She didn't know what yet, but she knew it was somewhere else.
Karen was forty-four. She had gotten a promotion at work. She had remodeled the kitchen—new cabinets, a new counter, new colors. As if remodeling the kitchen could erase what had happened there. Maybe it could. Maybe walls absorb tragedies and you have to repaint them to start over.
They lived together. Still. Mother and daughter. Two women in a house too big for two and too small for their memories.
One Saturday morning, Karen came downstairs and found Staicie in the kitchen. Standing in front of the new counter. Preparing breakfast. Scrambled eggs. Bacon. Fresh-squeezed orange juice. Coffee for Karen.
Karen stopped in the entryway.
“What are you doing?”
“Breakfast.”
“Since when do you make breakfast?”
“Since now.”
Karen sat down. She looked at the plate Staicie set in front of her. The scrambled eggs. The bacon. The steaming coffee. Exactly the way Jefferson used to make them.
“Staicie.”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
They ate together. In silence. The good kind of silence. The kind that doesn't need words because everything has already been said.
That afternoon, they went for a walk. The park. The shaded paths. The benches. Families with children. Couples holding hands. The normal lives of normal people.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think you'll fall in love again someday?”
Karen thought about it. Kept walking. Looked at the trees.
“Maybe. When I'm ready.”
“You deserve someone good.”
“So do you.”
“You mean someone my age.”
Karen smiled. A real smile. One that reached her eyes.
“Someone your age. Yes. With sneakers and a hoodie.”
“And Axe body spray.”
“And Axe body spray.”
They laughed. Together. Loudly. Karen's explosive laugh—the one that used to make glasses tip over. It had come back. Not intact. A little cracked. But back.
Staicie took her mother's arm. They walked like that. Arm in arm. Like two friends. Like two sisters. Like a mother and daughter who had survived the worst and were still standing.
“Mom?”
“Hmm?”
“I'm sorry. Again. Always.”
“I know.”
“Have you forgiven me?”
Karen stopped. Looked at her daughter. That tall blonde girl with blue eyes who looked so much like the woman she had been at nineteen. Beautiful. Strong. Lost. Looking for love in all the wrong places.
“Yes,” Karen said. “I've forgiven you.”
“When?”
“The day you told me you didn't want to be like that. That day, I knew you'd understood. And when a child understands, a mother forgives.”
Staicie squeezed her mother's arm. Hard. Too hard. Karen didn't pull away.
They went home. Prepared dinner together. Pasta. Salad. The ritual. But this time, there were only two of them. Just the two of them.
That evening, Staicie went up to her room. Sat on her bed. Looked around. The posters had changed. The pom-poms were no longer on the chair. The bed was the same—a twin, too small—but the room was different. Because she was different.
Her phone buzzed. A message from Cyndi.
“Party at Tyler's next Saturday. You coming?”
Staicie smiled. Typed her reply.
“I'll be there.”
“There'll be guys.”
“Guys our age?”
“Obviously our age, idiot.”
“Then I'll be there.”
She set her phone down. Lay back. Looked at the ceiling. Thought about Matthieu. Thought about Jefferson. Two men. Two mistakes. Two lessons.
Matthieu had taught her that men lie.
Jefferson had taught her that desire isn't love.
And Karen—her mother, her rival, her best enemy, her blood—Karen had taught her that love, real love, the kind that doesn't lie or betray, is a mother's love for her daughter.
Staicie closed her eyes.
Tomorrow would be another day.
A normal day.
And that was exactly what she wanted.
In a café downtown, Jefferson Cole sat alone. In front of him was a cold coffee he hadn't touched. His camera lay on the table. Turned off.
He was looking at his phone. The conversation with Staicie. Deleted on his end. But he remembered every word. Every photo. Every night.
He put the phone away. Took a sip of cold coffee. Grimaced.
A woman entered the café. Brunette. In her forties. Pretty. Tired. She was carrying a grocery bag and looking for an empty table.
“Excuse me, is this seat taken?” she asked, pointing to the chair across from Jefferson.
Jefferson looked up. Looked at her. Smiled. The charming smile. The lock of hair falling over his hazel eyes.
“Please.”
The woman sat down. Smiled back.
“Thank you. My name's Claire.”
“Jefferson.”
“Are you a photographer?” she asked, pointing at the camera.
“Yes. Mostly portraits. Faces.”
“That sounds like a beautiful profession.”
“It’s my profession.”
He smiled. She smiled. The lock of hair fell over his eyes. He didn't brush it away.
“Do you have children, Claire?”
“A daughter. Seventeen. Why?”
Jefferson drank his coffee. Set down the cup. Looked at Claire with his hazel eyes. Gentle. Warm. Sincere.
“For no reason. Just curious.”
He smiled.
And somewhere in the city, Staicie Blum slept. Peacefully. For the first time in a long time.
She didn't know.
Not yet.