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ALANA

All the greatest stories start with a question, no? A thought-provoking premise where the narrator asks the reader to consider a hypothetical situation its protagonist faces. A, ‘ How would you handle this ?’ or ‘ Would you do it differently ?’

Often, the reader will have their own theories because of the lenses of their history, the glasses through which they see life, filtered through their personal experiences.

Sometimes, the reader will know exactly how they would handle the hypothetical because they’ve already faced one exactly like it.

Or, and possibly more likely, maybe they have absolutely no experience at all, and thus, their ideas are flawless… in their minds, anyway.

That’s the beauty of ignorance. The gift of innocence.

Not knowing is a blessing. And I… well, I’m not sure I was in the correct line when God was handing those out.

“How long until we get there, Mom?”

I glance in my rear-view mirror, the New York City skyline slowly shrinking in the distance, but then I peel my eyes downwards and stop on my son and his dark, moppy hair.

He doesn’t like it long. But he likes having it cut even less.

“It’ll be a while, honey.” I scan the traffic spread out in front of us, changing lanes and angling toward a life I’ve already escaped once, almost ten years ago to the day.

Ironic, really .

“You said it would take twenty-four hours.”

“Twenty-four driving hours.” I merge toward our exit and swallow the lump of nerves nestled in the base of my throat, then I pull sunglasses down to cover my eyes and the itching redness that fills them, because leaving New York is not just leaving a city.

It’s leaving our home, the only one Franky has ever known.

It’s leaving my husband.

My best friend in the whole world.

My agent.

My contacts.

It’s leaving my dreams. And dammit, I’m not ready to let go of those.

“We’ll stop tonight and stay in a motel,” I explain carefully, knowing with sickening certainty that if I allow my voice to break from emotion, my son will ask questions I’m not sure I can answer.

He doesn’t know how not to. “I booked us in at this nice place that overlooks a lake. We have a ground-floor room with a door that leads out to the grassy area, and I saw on the website they have a grill on the patio, so maybe we can stop by a grocery store and buy something to cook instead of hitting a fast-food place.” I thumb the volume controls on my steering wheel and turn the music just a little higher.

“We could sit outside and watch the sun go down. Doesn’t that sound nice? ”

“No.” He stares straight into my mirror, his glasses reflecting the morning sun so I only see a portion of his perfect hazel gaze. Flattening his lips, he deadpans, “Sounds like we’re gonna get bit by mosquitos and itch all the way to Grandma’s tomorrow.”

I breathe out a soft laugh, shaking my head as the traffic surrounding us thins.

At this hour, most people are heading in to the city.

Not out of it. “Are you excited to see Grandma Bitsy?” My stomach quivers with nerves.

With dread. With the aching knowledge that, once we arrive in the small, six-thousand-person town aptly named Plainview, I’ll no longer have the luxury of ignoring the ghosts I fled from a decade ago, nor the woman who hounded my youth with her constant onslaught of ‘ you’re not good enough ’ and ‘ you’ll achieve nothing to be proud of ’.

The woman is a peach.

“She’s been calling almost every hour since I told her we were coming, honey. She’s busting out of her skin, waiting for you.”

“I don’t hardly know her.” He folds his arms and looks out the side window. “And she’s loud. All the time. Is she like that in real life?”

Yup. She sure is, kiddo .

“We can tell her you like things to be a little quieter.” A text pops up on my dash, drawing my eyes to my best friend’s name flashing for attention, though I don’t read it yet. “Remember how we talked about speaking up for ourselves?”

“People think I’m rude when I do that.”

“Some people get uncomfortable when a child advocates for themselves. We come from a world where kids are expected to be seen but not heard. It’s that way in places like Plainview, especially.

” I search the mirror, catching just the side of his sweet face.

“It’s not rude to speak up, honey, even if they’re uncomfortable.

As long as you’re being respectful, I’ll back you up every single time. ”

“Do you think Grandma will try to hug me and stuff?” He’s as nervous as me.

As wary and worried and, simply put, not all that excited about this move.

But life doesn’t always go the way we want it.

When your mother is sick and your husband and his assistant fall in love, it’s time to pack a few things and consider a new plan.

“I don’t want anyone to hug me.”

“I think Grandma Bitsy will want to hug you. It’s important to remember that, sometimes, people do the things they’re accustomed to doing without thinking. She might even—” definitely will “—forget to ask, but you’re allowed to tell her no. It’s not wrong of you to expect personal space.”

“What if she gets mad at me?” He drags his eyes away from the view and meets mine in the mirror. “It’s rude to say no.”

“No. It’s rude to touch someone who doesn’t want to be touched.

” I reach back and place my hand on the seat beside his leg, palm side up, and wait…

wait… wait. Until finally, his little hand rests on top of mine.

“This is going to be a learning experience for everyone, honey. You and Grandma are from different worlds, but you come from the same blood, so I think if we’re all patient with each other and communicate clearly, everything will be fine. ”

He falls silent for a long moment, exhaling a long sigh and brushing his fingers along my wrist. My shoulder rejects the stretch and twist of my arm. My bicep aches after a minute. Two. Three. But I don’t dare take my hand back.

“People in New York don’t pick on me, Mom. We’re all kind of weird there. But Plainview isn’t like that. Plainview won’t like me.”

“I’ll stand in front of you.” My heart twists with the fears I’ve already considered.

The worries that keep me awake at night.

The paralyzing knowledge that he might be right.

Plainview is a small town where most of its residents are already retired or close to it, and just like I did, their kids ran just as soon as they could.

That town is not ready for a special little boy like my son. But we don’t have much of a choice in the matter, and I’ll be damned if I let them make him feel anything less than the incredible human he is.

“We’ll take it one day at a time.” I nibble on the inside of my cheek and ignore the second text from my best friend. Then the third. “And you’re not weird, honey. You’re the most intuitive, smartest, kindest human I’ve ever met in my entire life.”

“You’re my mom.” His cheeks warm in the mirror’s reflection. And his lips quiver. Though he’s careful not to let them curl too high. “You have to say that.”

“No, I don’t. There’s no rule that says that. It’s not the law.”

He looks out the window again, his smile twitching to be freed.

“You’re going to change the world, Franky. And I’ll be right there with you, cheering so loud that you’ll want to ban me from every ceremony they invite you to. F,” I sing. “R. A. N. K. L. I. N. What’s that spell?”

“Mommmm…” he groans.

I stroke the side of his wrist and snicker when he drags his lips inside his mouth rather than admit he’s amused. “You’re gonna invent something amazing. Or discover something. Or cure something. Or write something.”

“Kinda like you. But you write looooove stories,” he teases. “The boy and the girl who fell in love and…” he trails off on what I swear sounds like blah blah blah. “I’ll write a thesis on negatively charged subatomic particles and an object’s permanence.”

I shake my head and search the rearview mirror. He gets that brain from the paternal side of his family. “You’re nine, Franky. I’m twenty-eight. I don’t even know what subat?—”

“Doesn’t speak highly of the school you’re about to enroll me in.” He casts his eyes back out to the road, his fingers gently stroking my wrist. “You’re two decades older than me, but my education already outstripped yours.”

“Yikes.” I drive one-handed, fumbling to reach my turn signals and dismissing Fox’s next text as it pops up on my screen. “I should probably have hurt feelings, huh? That was a burn if I ever heard one.”

He laughs, though he does it so quietly, the sound barely travels to my ears.

“I made you with my body. So the fact is, your intelligence is a reflection of mine. I can’t be burned by you because I created you. It’s in the rules.”

“That’s not true.” He kicks his shoes off and drags his feet onto the seat, folding them for comfort. We’ll be here for a while. May as well settle in. “You don’t get to keep my Nobel Prize just because we share DNA.”

“Mmhm.” I enjoy the way he so easily replaces the dread in my stomach with something so much better.

Something sweeter and calmer and a hell of a lot more hopeful.

“At the very least, I expect a mention in your acceptance speech. Something about how smart and wonderful I am, as a mother, a human being, a writer, a friend…”

“Can’t celebrate you as a writer if you never publish.”

Ouch! “Dude…”

“At this rate, I’ll be on shelves before you. When you catch up, we can compare and see who receives industry recognition first.”

“You’re mean.” I decline my best friend’s incoming call and settle in, knowing my shoulder will fall asleep soon and, with it, the pain of twisting my arm in the wrong direction. “I’ll publish. Eventually. I’m just waiting for the right time.”

“You have an offer,” he counters dryly. “You’re just a chicken. Will we do half the driving today and half again tomorrow?”

Change of subject, just like that.

“Which means we’ll arrive at Grandma’s at dinnertime?”

“That’s the plan. We could probably go slower, if you want. Break it up into three days. But I figure?—”

“Drive faster,” he grumbles. “I hate sitting in the car. I’m gonna read now, okay?” He releases my hand and snags his book from the back of my seat, digging his hand into the pocket a second time in search of his pen. “I don’t want to talk anymore.”

“What are you read?—”

“Murdles. Shhh.” He clicks his pen and pokes his tongue forward. It helps him think… allegedly. “I’ll let you know when I need to pee. And can you tell me when you’re planning to stop for food? Maybe twenty-five minutes before.”

“Uh—”

“Actually, fifteen minutes is enough. Twenty-five is unnecessary.”

“Right.” I look out at the road spreading ahead of us, knowing I won’t get another word from him from now until lunchtime.

And because I know it, I snag my earbuds and press one into my ear, waiting for Bluetooth to connect and the soft music playing through the speakers to transfer to my ear instead.

All so I can listen to the music I like without bothering the little boy set on solving a murder mystery.

But of course, with the change in technology comes a robotic voice .

Text received by Fox:

Bitch, stop ignoring me!

Alana fucking Page! I’m watching your GPS dot move further and further away. I want it known I am NOT pleased!

Colin called. I was busy, so I couldn’t accept, and he didn’t leave a message. Did you chat with him today?

Calllllll meeeeeeee! I promise not to talk you out of this stupid move. I’m having withdrawals, and I saw you, like, twenty-three minutes ago. If you won’t come back, then the least you can do is call me so we can hang out.

I know your mom is sick, and I know Colin is with Tasha now. But you’re punishing me for things outside my control! Divorce him and stayyyyyy.

You can live with me. Colin will probably even give you the apartment during settlement, and then you can sell it for oodles of money and bank that for Franky’s future as a tech gazillionaire.

And did I mention staying with me? I won’t charge you rent so long as you bake your brownies at least twice a month.

Helen called, too. She said, and I quote, ‘I’m worried about Alana. What do you think we should do?’

Tommy’s gonna be in Plainview, too, right? Have you considered what the F you’re gonna say to the guy whose heart you broke before your ass busted outta town without a backward glance? Do you think he’s still pissed?

Oh, God. Have you considered that he might have married a beautiful model and made thirty-seven beautiful kids? You won’t cope, Alana! Come back to New York so we can talk this out and come up with a better plan.

Because if you have a sudden psychotic break and kill the model wife of the guy you never got over, then you’ll go to prison.

If you go to prison, I’ll be forced to co-parent with Colin for access to Franky! I don’t want to co-parent with Colin.

And that’s why I’m not calling her. Not yet, anyway.

Fox Tatum has a tendency toward wildly unhinged and over-the-top dramatics, and her fanciful obsession with a story I told her once, eight years ago, about a guy I used to know in high school, is why I refuse to hit the green icon on my screen when her name flashes for attention once more.

No way.

No chance.

Not happening.

If I’m driving back to Plainview after all these years, willfully heading toward the life I already escaped and the trauma I’d rather not revisit, then I’d prefer to do it with my sanity intact, my heart beating a normal tune, and without my best friend screaming but Tommy Watkins! in my ear.

My high school boyfriend— the love of my friggin’ life —may or may not be married to a model these days, and who knows, he may or may not have beautiful children with dark brown hair and perfect hazel eyes. But one thing is for certain: he’s not sitting around thinking about me anymore.