Page 120 of The Muse
“Well, now she’s back.”
“She’s back and going to doctor’s appointments with Mom. She’s back and practicing her cello for three hours in the morning and three hours after dinner. She’s back and she hasn’t once laid by the pool.”
“She swims every day,” Dad says.
“Yeah. She swims laps until she’s out of breath. She does everything until she just can’t do it anymore. Then she sleeps a few hours, wakes up, and does it all again.”
I peel my ear away from the door. I’ve heard enough. My parents fighting over my well-being does nothing to help. On my way downstairs for breakfast, I pull my phone from my robe’s pocket and text Flynn—my favorite escape.
June: If u could live anywhere in the world, where would it be?
I sit at the dining room table where a bowl of overnight oats and fresh berries is ready for me.
Flynn: Where I am
Flynn: If u could live anywhere in the world where would it be?
June: I’d live in a van with a full tank of gas and endless possibilities
June: My dad had an old VW van when my mom met him. She said she fell as hard for the van as she did for my dad. And she named his van Alice.
Flynn: that might be the coolest thing I’ve ever heard
June: If u could only eat one food for the rest of your life what would it be?
Flynn: Duh. Chicken fingers
I giggle, taking a bite of oats.
Flynn: Last song u listened to that had words
My tummy does a little flip. Are we going to talk songs like my parents did?
June: Complicated by GRAACE
June: U?
Flynn: Iris by Josh Ross
My heart fractures. I don’t think I’ve heard that artist, but I know every lyric to “Iris,” and Flynn listening to it makes everything inside hurt.
June: I have to go
Flynn: I have to stay
“There you are,” Dad says, sauntering into the dining room in shorts and a T-shirt. “Let’s go to the beach today. No cello. No doctor's appointments. Just a day of relaxing in the sun.”
“Yeah?” I sip my green tea. “Sounds like a great idea. Just hanging out in the sun, thinking of Grandma’s melanoma diagnosis. Are we taking SPF 100 and wide-brimmed hats?”
He frowns, sitting across from me. Violet, Grandma’s personal chef, delivers his coffee and an omelet with a side of sourdough toast. It’s like she magically knows what time everyone will arrive for breakfast.
“Jeez, Zoya, did you really have to go there?” Dad asks.
“I have a better idea.” Mom’s cheery tone draws our attention toward her as she approaches the table in a long, floral sundress, tying her blond hair into a messy bun. “Let’s take a bike tour.”
Dad eyes me, waiting for my response.
I stir my oats before taking another bite and nodding. “I don’t hate that idea.”
