the hook-up. {ethma}

chapter 30

emma chamberlain

I'M SO GRATEFUL for the fall break I could cry. Not only will it spare me from having to face Ethan in class, but I need to get away. For the first time in years, my mother's home is a haven to which I want to run as fast as I can.

Better still, I won't have to see Terrance when I get there. Last month, when my mom voiced second thoughts on selling her childhood home, Terrance went ballistic, telling her that she had no right to keep them from their dream by being a coward. Mom realized that it wasn't her dream, but his. Two weeks later, old Terry was sailing off to the Bahamas with his chow-chow's groomer.

Thanksgiving dinner is subdued. Mom often invites people to spend it with us, single friends, those who couldn't make it home to families of their own. When I was younger, I would protest because I didn't want to share her with other grownups. Not when I only saw my working mother at dinner.

As I got older, I grew to appreciate the sound of laughter and interesting conversation during those meals. Unfortunately, this year, my mom hasn't invited anyone. I know it's because they'll ask about Terrance, and the breakup is too fresh for mom to deal. I empathize. Entirely. Only I'd rather have the distraction. Now it's just Mom and me. And a quiet house.

We cook together, and I try to find something to talk about. Conversation usually isn't a problem, but since the only thing I want to do is curl up in bed and cry, I'm finding it a struggle.

My mother fills the void and talks. About her practice. About her friend Silvia, who she thinks might be bulimic. About the new moisturizer she's found and loves to pieces. And it's fine. If only this aching, gnawing hole within me would fill up with each bite of food I take, instead of growing larger. If only I'd feel warm instead of cold. My walls are no longer shored up. I could topple at any moment. Right onto my mom's plush Turkish carpet.

Dessert, as always, is taken in the living room, while tucked up in front of the fire on the old Chesterfield sofa that Mom had reupholstered last year in cream linen. In the frenzy of redecorating, Mom also converted the wood-burning fireplace into gas, and though the flames dance and look cheery, I miss the scent of burning wood.

Ethan's house has a wood-burning fireplace. I picture him kneeling before it, stacking wood and getting the tinder ready. Is he there now? Is he with Deon? God, I hope so. The idea of Ethan being alone makes my heart physically hurt. I take an extra large bite of pumpkin cheesecake and try not to choke on it.

"What is going on with you, Emma?"

I nearly jump in my seat. I hadn't noticed Mom studying me. Though I shouldn't be surprised. Even if she doesn't always act like she's paying attention, she usually is.

I run the tines of my fork through the burnished cheesecake. I could evade, divert attention, but telling the truth is the quickest way with Mom. Like ripping off an especially sticky bandage. "I broke up with someone."

"I'm sorry to hear it, sweetheart."

My fork stabs deep.

"It didn't get too far. We weren't really right for each other." God, the lie chokes me. I'm going to throw up my Thanksgiving dinner right here on the living room floor. I take a deep breath. "But I think I hurt him, and I'm sorry about it." I might have also done some irreparable internal damage to myself, but we don't need to talk about that.

Mom wisely says nothing but simply rises to go make me a cup of espresso. It gives me enough time to control my erratic breathing and quivering lip. When she returns, I'm composed.

"With a little extra crema on top," she says, setting a tiny white cup down on the table before me. "Just as you like it."

"Thanks." The rich, deep scent of espresso is a needed comfort.