Page 7

But first, food! That’s what I need to temporarily fill the emptiness inside me. Everything is fixable. Well, almost everything.

I poke around my uncle’s immaculate kitchen in search of something to eat. I skipped dinner last night and all three meals today. I’ve gone from hunger strike to ravenous. But it’s Saturday night, which means the kitchen is closed and we’re expected to fend for ourselves. My mother popped her head into my room only once since my ass got dumped, to see why I was hibernating, and didn’t push when I’d blamed it on an “engrossing book.” She’s one of those people who eats only to fuel herself. Nadia Taher (no longer hyphen Foster) doesn’t derive any pleasure in biting into a juicy cheeseburger or forking a gravy-filled bowl of poutine.

I slam the cabinets, unable to find anything appetizing. Usually there’s leftovers from my uncle’s shawarma restaurant in the fridge, but tonight it’s bare.

“Jamie, is that you up there?” Mom calls from the basement.

A long, annoyed breath escapes me. “Yes.”

“Come down here, would you?” she asks.

I shove a couple crackers in my mouth before heading down. Mom has her dark, curly hair up in a messy topknot with a thick chartreuse headband keeping back the baby hairs. All her products are spread out on the shiny white tiled floor, in groups.

What was supposed to be a temporary stay three years ago has become permanent. Mom built her salon, In the Hair Tonight, in Amo Eli’s basement and does well, despite its terrible name (big Phil Collins fan). Mom’s a savvy businesswoman. She’s better at social media than I am. Her salon Insta has over five thousand followers and she’s constantly enlisting my help with creating reels. Most of the girls from my high school come here. Sometimes Mom forces me to help when a classmate is getting their hair done, hoping we’ll, like, bond over hair dye or something. Even after I started dating Ben, she wouldn’t let up about making friends. Like it’s so easy. Like baking a cake or something.

“Could you dust the top shelves for me?” she says, handing me the Swiffer. “Make sure you get the corners.”

As I’m dusting, Mom hits Play on her terrible playlist, which is overrun with songs by Phil Collins—or “Uncle Phil,” which is what I used to call him when I was a child with no discernable musical taste of my own.

“Why aren’t you and Ben out?” she asks, wiping the mirrors.

That’s shocking. Amo Eli didn’t run straight to Mom to spill the tea. I pause, debating whether to tell her the truth. Mom likes Ben but has made it clear that she a) doesn’t think he’s the one for me, and b) believes I’m way too serious about him. “Learn from my mistakes,” she likes to say.

“We’re taking a break,” I respond, avoiding eye contact. Maybe it’s better if Mom believes this was my choice too. That way, when we get back together, she won’t hold it against Ben for breaking my heart.

“Oh, Jamie, I’m sorry. How did you both arrive at this decision?”

I turn and face her, biting back the tirade of angry words I want to shout for both her lackluster attempt at empathy and her therapist-like question. “It’s fine.” I raise my shoulders and return to the shelves, dusting with vigor. “He’s just going through a phase. Those camp kids got into his head. Something that wouldn’t have happened if I’d been allowed to go with him.”

Mom comes up behind me and places her hand on my arm, forcing me to stop my aggressive dusting and face her. “Jamie,” she says, her head tilted at me like I’m three. “Are you two really on a break or did you break up?”

“Ben may have been the one to suggest it.”

“Suggest the break?”

“No,” I say through gritted teeth. “Suggest we break up, okay? Is that what you want to hear?”

Mom’s face falls at my tone. I’d almost feel bad if I didn’t feel so sad for myself. She brings up a hand and strokes my cheek. “Sweetie.”

“It’s fine,” I say, shrugging her off. “I’m giving him space. He’ll change his mind.”

“And if he doesn’t?” Mom asks. I can tell by how she’s looking at me that alarm bells are going off inside her head. Whenever I snap or refuse to listen to her, she instantly jumps to the conclusion that my anxiety is taking over. God forbid she’d see my moodiness as a rightful result of being dumped and not assume the worst.

“He will,” I respond with indignant determination.

“Just don’t pretend you’re not hurting, like your father does. Ethan Foster would rather bury his head in the sand than admit to having feelings. Emotions are completely natural.”

“I know that,” I reply, taking a step back.

“Even still, it might not be a terrible idea for you to book an appointment with Dr. Mueller again. I know you’re not interestedin seeing a therapist on a regular basis, but seasonal check-ins might be helpful for managing your anxiety,” Mom says, hope brimming in her voice.

And there it is. The suggestion I knew was lurking around the corner. “It’s not that serious,” I say, a forced laugh escaping. “Truly. I’m fine.”

Mom nods and walks back to her chair, wiping the table under the mirror. “This is probably for the best,” she says. “You’ve been with Ben since you were fourteen. All your high school experiences are attached to him. This will give you time to get to know yourself before you go off to university. Figure out what Jamie wants.”

Jamie wants a cheeseburger and not to hear her mother spew terrible advice. Mom wouldn’t know good advice if it landed on the tip of her nose. Her life has been a series of bad decisions. Dating my father against her parents’ wishes. Getting pregnant at eighteen. Eloping and moving far away from everyone. Cutting her parents out of her life. Then turning the only person on her side—my dad—against her by constantly nagging him to be someone he was never meant to be. She makes me so angry, but sometimes I just feel sorry for her.

This isn’t the life she wanted. And I just serve as a giant, five-foot-ten reminder of that. But hey, at least I can reach the top shelves.