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I stop again to look back. Through the glass, I can see he’s already caught up in whatever’s on a small TV on the desk. Checking the time, I know I should go before I miss my flight, but my curiosity gets the better of me.

I only step a foot back in. “How do you know my name?”

“You’re on Ms. St. James’s list of guests who don’t have to check in.”

I’ve never been inside the building, much less her apartment, but I’m on the list? Her list? I know I’m being nosy, but I’ve never been on a doorman’s list before and feel bold after making this one. “Does she have a long list?”

He chuckles, his jowls threatening to jiggle. “You’re it.”

“I’m the list?”

He nods and then points at the game. I raise my hand and then go back outside again. I see the car I hired come make the block again and get in as soon as he pulls to the curb. He looks at me in the rearview mirror, and asks, “The airport?”

“I made the list.” I don’t know what I’m saying or why I’m telling him, but this seems like news that needs to be broadcast all over New York City.I. Made. Her. List.

“That’s great,” the driver says, not as enthusiastic as I am. Actually, there’s no inflection in his tone at all. “JFK?”

Doesn’t matter what he thinks. I made Natalie’s guest list.Me, myself, and I.“Yes.”

* * *

I’ll admitthat the high I was riding from making her list didn’t last until touchdown in LA. I felt her absence growing with every mile traveled, and with a continent between us, I fear the worst—losing her altogether.

I got a text that Andrew sent a car to pick me up. I expected a ride share like Uber or Lyft, but I got Cookie’s carpool instead. “What are you doing here, Mom?”

“Andrew said you needed a lift,” she replies while getting back in the car. The traffic cops at LAX mean business and will make us move if we even try to say hi on the sidewalk. We’ll hug in the car.

I load my leather duffel into the trunk of her Mercedes and then get in on the passenger’s side. She shifts the gear into drive, but we embrace quickly before she pulls out. I say, “I did, but you didn’t have to fight this traffic. A car would have been fine.”

“I wanted to.” She lays on her horn when a Ford F-150 cuts her off. “People are the worst.”

Did I ever mention she’s hell on wheels, suffering from a major case of road rage? I’ve had bouts of it myself in Los Angeles traffic, so I cut her some slack. I also double-check my seat belt and then hold on to the handle.

“I appreciate it.”

Though she keeps her eyes focused on the road, ready to attack anyone who has the nerve to enter her lane, she asks, “How are you?”

I don’t have the energy to hide my feelings anymore. “Not that great.”

Her gaze finds me briefly, and she nods. “It’s good to be in touch with your feelings. There’s no way to change if you can’t get to the root of your spiritual being.”

When she deep dives into the psyche and universe stuff, I start missing the road rage mama. “I’m not sure I’m one to analyze. It’s pretty obvious that I fucked up and don’t know how to get her back.”

“I’ve been worried about you, but I know sometimes we have to let our concerns run their course. I can’t fix this for you, but I have a feeling you can. It’s just going to take some time and innovation.”

“God,” I say, my head dropping against the headrest. “Does everyone have to speak in riddles? Can’t someone just give me the fucking answers to make this better? First, the doorman, and now you. Just help me.”

I’m glad her eyes are back on the road again when she says, “I will if I can. What did the doorman say?”

“I spent five hours on that flight, trying to figure it out and failed. Here goes. Hope is only as strong as the heart that wields it.”

Nodding, she purses her lips. “Oooh, that’s a good one.”

“Yeah, but what does it mean?”

“I’ll think about it and get back to you. In the meantime, you have a lot of loose ends to wrap up.”

“You’re telling me.”