Page 47

FINALLY, THE WEEK is over, and Liza is coming home. I’ve respected her need for time and space, given her several heartfelt apologies to accept in her own due course. Now, as I wait for her arrival, I hope that she has forgiven me. I hope that we can regain our close relationship. Liza hasn’t even told me when she’s leaving for Australia, what her route will be, who is joining her other than her friend Sage. I’m out of the loop and it’s making me feel panicky, like I’m losing control. I know my daughter is growing up, I know she is breaking away, but she is still my baby. She is still my world.

Tori’s accusation flits through my mind.

“She rerouted her entire future while you were on Instagram.”

Well, Liza has my full attention now. When I’m with her, I’m going to be present and engaged. All my stress, anxiety, and fear will be balled up and tucked away in a back corner of my brain to be dealt with at another time. This may not be the healthiest coping mechanism, but it must be done, because I need to reconnect with my daughter before she leaves the continent. To ensure that happens, I’ve bought her a gift.

When I hear her key in the lock, I jump up from the sofa. I’m anxious, excited, slightly nervous. I’ve never felt uneasy with my own kid before, but I’ve never had her cut me off like she did. A child seeking independence can sometimes do so through parental conflict; I know this from my studies. Liza and I have always been so tight, it’s natural for her to push me away, to create space for her independence. But now I’m going to win her back.

“Hi, honey.” My greeting is bright, perhaps a little too bubbly.

“Whoa,” Liza mutters under her breath. “Calm down.”

Still mad at me, then.

She kicks off her shoes, shuffles directly to her bedroom with her duffel bag without even a glance my way.

“Liza,” I call. She doesn’t answer. “Can you come out here please?”

A single word emanates from her bedroom. “Why?”

“I have something for you.”

After a few moments, her head pops out of her doorway. “What?”

“Come see.”

She slouches into the living room, arms crossed at her chest. Her body language is hostile, closed off, until she spots it. My gift is a large backpack from a prestigious outdoor company, an expensive, stylish, and ideal accoutrement for her travels. There is a physical softening in my daughter, a subdued delight. The present is perfect. I’ve nailed it.

“Do you like it?”

“It’s great. Thank you.”

“I told the girl at the store that you were backpacking around Australia. She said this was the perfect size and it’s waterproof and durable.”

“Nice.” She’s warming up.

“Should we get takeout tonight?” I ask hopefully. “Sushi maybe?”

“Sage is picking me up in twenty minutes. We’re meeting some friends at the beach.”

“Okay,” I say, masking my disappointment. “Can I make you something quick? An omelet?”

“We’re going to grab some food and eat there.”

“Right. Well, I’m glad you like the backpack. And I’m glad you’re home.”

“Thanks, Mom.” She comes over and kisses my cheek. It’s a gesture of appreciation with little warmth in it, but it’s a start.

After she leaves, I tidy the apartment, fuss around making a salad, feeling at loose ends. I know I need to talk to Theo, but I’ve been putting it off. Martha’s confession about my boyfriend’s jealous reaction to my book runs through my mind. It had sounded petulant and childish, even mean-spirited. But I’m also hearing this thirdhand and out of context. I need to give Theo a chance to explain.

Both Martha and Felix suspect Theo could be behind my harassment—some of it anyway—but I can’t believe it. They don’t know him like I do. Theo’s not vindictive. And despite what he said to Felix, he’s been loving and supportive. Mostly. His juvenile response to my trip to Miami revisits my memory. And it’s been nearly a week since my meltdown at Adrian’s, since Theo and I discovered the mortifying TikTok video, and my partner is still giving me the cold shoulder.

With a fire in my belly, I grab the phone. “Look,” I say when I hear his dull greeting, “I know you’re mad at me, but we need to talk.”

“I’m not mad,” he says. “I’m frustrated. Because you’re being reckless and making stupid choices. You drove to Bellevue without even telling me. What if something had happened to you, Cam?”

“I know that was dumb. I know I should have told you. But you can’t keep punishing me forever.”

“I know.”

“There’s something else we need to discuss.”

“Sure. I’ll come over.”

“You can’t come here. Liza will be home later.”

There’s a nearly inaudible huff of annoyance, but I let it slide.

“I can come to your place,” I suggest, though it’s not ideal. Theo shares a run-down house with his twentysomething cousin, Liam, who spends most of his time lounging on the sofa, sucking on a bong, and watching South Park. “Or we can meet somewhere?”

“Come here,” he says. “We can walk out to a bar.”

“I’ll be there in an hour.”

I’m putting on some makeup when my phone pings. My stomach tightens, worried the sound signals another onslaught of threats and abuse, but I check it anyway. It’s Liza.

Can you pick me up?

My spirits lift. Because I know this means my daughter has forgiven me. If she was still angry at me, she could have gotten a lift with a friend, called an Uber, or walked home along the seaside path. We’ll be alone in the car; it’s the perfect opportunity to talk. I glance at the time on my phone. It’s barely eight o’clock.

Of course. Everything okay?

Just come, she replies.

Spanish Banks is the last in a series of beaches that run along the waters of English Bay, before the terrain turns rocky and inaccessible. It has a large parking lot that is always jam-packed on pleasant evenings such as this one. I don’t expect to find a spot, but I’ll pull over and text Liza with my location.

I’d canceled on Theo, obviously. My daughter sounded upset, and I’ve vowed to be more supportive and available to her. His text response was one word. Make that one letter: K.

He’s probably annoyed, he may feel slighted, but if he can’t understand that Liza must come first—particularly after the blowup he witnessed the other night—then our future is limited. I can tolerate Theo being petty and jealous of my book, but not of my child. He knew when he met me that I was a mom.

As predicted, a stream of vehicles enters and exits the lot, but I pull in anyway. I plan to double-park, but a car to my right begins to back out, allowing me to slide into its spot. I text my daughter that I’m in the parking lot, and then I climb out of the car for some seaside air. The sun is warm on my face, the breeze fresh and briny. I close my eyes, listen to the sounds of seagulls, laughter, and a boombox owned by someone arrogant enough to provide a soundtrack for the entire beach.

Liza hasn’t responded to my text, but I’m not concerned. And I know enough not to approach her clique. Being picked up by your mom is highly uncool, so I’ll be patient. Wandering onto the expansive grass field across from the water, I take in the view of the north shore mountains, the navy-blue Pacific, the shirtless boys playing Frisbee. I smell the scent of meat grilling on hibachis, watch some children eating sticky Popsicles, admire a sheepdog catching a ball in midair. It’s all so idyllic, a world where nothing could be wrong. But pretty surfaces can conceal a lot.

As I look toward the water, I spot her. Liza is with a circle of kids sitting on the grass beneath a sprawling willow tree. She’s half kneeling, saying goodbye to Sage and her school friends Astrid and Maggie. I see Wyatt, on the far side of the group, his eyes on my daughter. From this distance it’s hard to read his expression, but he’s clearly not happy. He is either sad or angry, and I wonder if they’ve had a tiff. Two boys I don’t recognize flank Wyatt, and then there’s a kid with dirty-blond hair who looks vaguely familiar. He resembles Wyatt a little, could be a taller, slimmer brother. I can’t place this boy, but I know a lot of teenagers. I must have met him at Liza’s school or maybe at Maple Heights. There’s not much cross-socializing between the two high schools. The public school kids think the private school kids are snobs and jerks. The private school kids think the public school kids are stoners and losers.

Liza is walking toward me now, and I give her a subtle wave. As I wait for her to join me, my eyes flick back to her group of friends one more time. The blond boy is standing now, looking at something on his phone. He is tall and fit, likely an athlete of some sort. A sharp gasp of shock and recognition escapes me as his identity slots into my mind.

This is the boy I saw in Megan Prince’s window. The one she said was her nephew. He is the one who filmed me. The one responsible for the denigrating TikTok video. What is he doing here in Vancouver? What is he doing hanging out with my daughter?

“Hey,” Liza mutters as she approaches. She’s clearly unhappy.

“You okay?”

“Not really.” She doesn’t want to talk about it. Not yet. We move to the car in silence. I’ll give her some time to open up; I won’t force the issue. But I need to find out how she knows that boy.

Once we’re on the main road home, I force a casual tone. “Who was that tall blond boy with you? He was sitting one over from Wyatt.”

“That’s Hugo.”

“Who is he?”

“I don’t really know him. He plays on Wyatt’s soccer team.”

“Does he live here?”

“Of course he lives here. Why are you so obsessed with him?”

“I’m not.” But I’m doing it again. I’m allowing my own issues to distract from my daughter’s. “Did you and Wyatt have a fight or something?”

Liza sighs. “Remember when I told you that Wyatt wasn’t possessive?”

“Yes.”

“Well, he sort of is.” Her words send a chill through me, as I visualize Wyatt sitting outside our apartment, running down the side of Adrian and Tori’s house. I remember his texts: Where r u? Over and over again.

“Did he do something to you?” My voice is tight with fear and anger.

“No, Mom. Wyatt’s not a psycho.” She sounds annoyed, like the suggestion is ludicrous. “But he doesn’t like some of the girls I’m going traveling with.”

“He doesn’t have to like them. As long as you do.”

“That’s what I said.”

“I’d like to meet them,” I add. “Before you go.”

“Of course. We’re not even leaving until September.”

“Has your dad met them?”

“Tori invited them over with their parents,” Liza volunteers. “So we could talk about plans and stuff.”

A flash of guilt is quickly followed by relief. I should have done this, but at least Adrian has vetted these kids and their families. He’s overseeing their plans.

Liza says, “But you’ll meet them, too, Mom.”

I smile over at her, and my chest fills with love and something else… a fierce protectiveness. Wyatt—and this Hugo kid—will not do any more damage to my family.