Page 16 of The Sun & Her Burn

“Next time,” I promised.

“Freesia,” she instructed, sinking back into her chair and clasping her bony hands over her stomach. She seemed suddenly lethargic as if her tirade had eaten up the last of her energy reserves. “Don’t listen to Linnea. She’ll tell you I like orchids because they’reherfavorites.”

Done with our conversation, Miranda turned her head away from us both and closed her eyes.

Silence descended.

“I’m so, so—” she started just as I said, “I am sorry, I should not have run inside. Only, I thought you were in danger.”

Linnea was already nodding by the time I finished. Her heavy sigh puffed out her cheeks, and she ran a hand through her soft halo of hair before rocking back onto her heels and standing.

“I’ll explain in the car, shall I?” she suggested with a tepid smile. “If you could grab my board from the side of the house, I’ll just text Mrs. Ramirez to come over, clean up this mess, and I’ll meet you at the car.”

She looked so young and small standing in the middle of the tiny, cluttered living room in frayed jean shorts and a tiny white bikini top. So I didn’t resist the impulse to go to her, plucking a wilted yellow flower from her hair, dropping it to the ground before I slid my hand under her heavy hair and cupped her neck. She stared up at me with those almond-shaped violet-coloured eyes as if she could not believe I was real.

“I’m going to hug you now,” I told her as I pulled her gently by the neck into my chest.

Her heavy exhale warmed my skin through my tee as she pressed her nose into the space between my pecs and wrapped her arms around my waist.

I held her without speaking so I could focus on the infinitesimal way the tension leeched from her muscles as the seconds passed until she was utterly soft and flush against me. She smelled of sea salt and flowers in a way that reminded me startlingly of Napoli. Of home.

When she was ready, I let her slip from my arms and watched as she moved into the back of the house. I took another second to study the room properly, noting the shelf of daytime television awards, the movie posters framed on the walls, and the old-money furniture crammed into the small space. A big life reduced to memories and a tiny floorplan that didn’t allow for the grandeur Miranda had once enjoyed.

I had never particularly liked Miranda and Bobbi, Savannah’s best friends in London all those years ago. They had brought out the more brittle qualities in my lover, her materialism and haughtiness, her aloof reserve and cutting judgements.

But I would never have wished this for Miranda, whose worst quality seemed only to be a Bambi-like naivety that the world would and should always work out in her favor.

I found Linnea’s board around the left side of the house. It wasn’t a new surfboard with the latest technology like the one I had strapped to the top of the SUV, but it had been lovingly tended to and was the sunny yellow color I had come to associate with Linnea.

When she got into the car, she dumped her big straw bag at her feet, kicked off her flip-flops, and rested them on the top of the dash before leaning her head back and sighing deeply. It was a posture of familiarity, as if she had been riding in this car with me for years, and it did something strange to the center of my chest. I resolved to think about it later.

“You are too young to look so tired,” I told her as I pulled out into the street. It was still only quarter to six in the morning, but we had to make good time to get the best of the morning waves.

“I am too young to feel this tired,” she agreed, rolling her head to face me.

“Your mother is sick,si?” I asked softly, glancing at her before I turned left to get back to the highway.

Another long, weary sigh. “She has frontotemporal dementia.”

“This is like Alzheimer’s?”

“It’s in the same family, but FTD specifically affects the personality and language centers of the brain. Some days, she’s better than others, but she forgets about personal hygiene and eating, and she has episodes of intense paranoia or anger. She has muscle weakness and a lack of coordination, so someone has to watch her because she can fall or drop things and seriously hurt herself.” She paused, turning her face to look out the window before softly admitting, “Once, a few months ago, I left her alone to go to an audition, and when I came home, she’d lost so much blood cutting her foot open on a broken glass that I thought she was dead.”

My heart ached with empathy. I could not imagine watching my mother or sisters going through such a sad and frightening disease, not to mention having to deal with it alone.

“What happened to her last husband?” I demanded. “I thought she had married again after Wyndam.”

She nodded, twisting the ends of her overlarge, embroidered white shirt above her belly button into a knot. “She was. He left when she was given the official diagnosis.”

“What about alimony? Surely that should cover the cost of full-time care.”

I did not know why I asked when it suddenly seemed obvious that Miranda required full-time care.

“The prenup stipulated that she wouldn’t get anything if they divorced before two years had passed. He left two months before their second wedding anniversary.”

I winced. “Cazzo, what astronzo.”

Her laugh was brittle, cracking at the edges. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”