ARIEL
“Riri! Over here!”
I rush across the road a split second before the light turns red. A car honks at me, but I don’t even flip the driver off—that’s how giddy I feel.
Because today, I finally get to see her.
“Mama!”
She hugs me tight, making me wobble from side to side. “My baby girl! It’s been ages!”
One thing about Belle Ward that most people don’t seem to clock until it’s too late: she has a grip of steel. “Ow, ow, ow. Ribs alert.”
“Sorry.” She pulls away, her hands still firmly on my arms, that Let-me-take-a-look-at-you pose that parents do best. “God, you’re so beautiful.”
“You say that every time.”
“Because it’s true every time.”
“That’s just your rose-colored Mom Glasses talking.”
She shakes her head, her smile as bright as summer. “Now, don’t play coy. It’s also your hair up in a— Hm, I know those braids. Dead giveaway. You heading to a date after this? Or coming from one?”
I blush. No matter what, her radar never fails. “It’s not a date. It’s…” A date. Tell it like it is, Ariel. You can’t sell bullshit to the woman who made you—she’ll smell it a mile away.
I try anyway. “The latter. Sort of. Not really.”
“Mhmm. With a man?”
I stay silent.
“Just you and him?”
I stay silent some more.
“This isn’t a trial, Riri. You can’t plead the Fifth.”
“I can try.”
“Fine.” She feigns indifference, her nose turned up to the skies. “We won’t talk about your hot hunk of a boyfriend.”
“Wait—how do you know he’s a hunk?”
She smirks. “So he is a hunk! And hot! And your boyfriend!”
Fuck me. Played right into her hands. “He’s not my boyfriend,” I grumble, ashamed of how easily I folded. “He’s… something.”
She nods sagely. “Great. Shall we toast to your ‘something,’ then? Perhaps with a nice cone of Pistachio Chocolate Dream?”
I close my eyes. I can already taste it—that milky, sugary perfection. “Fine, but only if you’re treating.”
“Of course. You’re still being paid in leprechaun gold, aren’t you?”
“Ouch, Mother. At least rub Sea Salt Caramel into that wound.”
Laughing, she loops her arm through mine and we hit up the ice cream shop on the corner. Once we’ve got our cones of shame—four scoops and whipped cream, as if metabolism is just a river in Egypt—we head to the park. There’s a family of ducks whose shenanigans we’ve been following religiously, and I’m starving for updates.
Also, for quality time with my mom.
We haven’t had much of that since she left fifteen years ago, one week after Jasmine did. I saw her on weekends, sure, but it was never quite the same. Those first few months after the separation, I’d catch myself going to her room to ask her opinion about a dress, or help with homework.
Every time, I found it empty.
Every time, I bawled my eyes out.
Which is why, since then, I’ve been determined to make this work. No—we are. Mama wasn’t any happier to be separated from me, and we quickly decided that, if we had to have less time together, we’d make every moment we did have count. In ways big and small. It’s just my luck that today’s regularly scheduled reunion is coming right on the heels of that definitely-not-a-date with Sasha.
“So,” I start. “What’s Quill Quackdashian been up to?”
“Oh, you have no idea. Last week, she took little Quortney for a swim around the islet. The poor baby kept falling over herself, it was so adorable. Total cuteness overload.”
I palm my forehead. “Mom, that hasn’t been a thing since, like, 2013.”
“Well, I’m making it a thing again.” She whips her hair and harrumphs. “Like ‘epic fail.’”
“And that hasn’t seen the light of day since the Financial Crisis.”
“What can I say? I’m an old soul.”
I shake my head, unable to suppress my laughter. The fact that Belle had me so early means all the memes of my childhood were also the memes of her late twenties to mid-thirties. Everything that’s corny for me is still totally hip for her—including the word “hip.”
“You’re a very young soul, Mama.”
“By all means, keep complimenting me. But it won’t get you out of talking about your boyfriend. Or ‘hunk,’ as you so eloquently put it.”
“You’re the one who called him that.”
“I was fishing, dear. And of course you’d land a hunk—you’re my daughter.” Her eyes dart to the lake. “Oh! Look! There’s Quendall!”
We find a bench to sit on while we duck-watch. I’d never say it out loud, but I’ve missed this. Even though it hasn’t really been that long. But I guess I’m still making up for lost time.
It’s funny to see her like this, though: free and proud and utterly unfazed by how cruel life has been to her. A marriage ruined, one daughter gone, another in quasi-hiding—none of it has dimmed Belle Ward’s shine. She’s my hero, honestly.
“Wow. Look at her go,” I remark.
“Right? Quortney can’t swim for shit, but Quendall’s a natural.”
I scour the reeds, looking for the rest of the family. “Where’s Quanye?”
“Who knows? Haven’t seen him since the last time we were here together.”
“Probably on tour, then.”
“Probably.” She turns her gaze back to me. “God, you really do look incredible. It’s like you’re glowing.”
“I’m pregnant, actually.”
She gives me a panicked look over before she thwacks my knee. “Oh, shut up. I almost believed you.”
Then her eyes turn serious. “So, this hunk. Would he be this fake baby’s daddy? Am I going to have to beat him up?”
“Mom!”
“It was just a question. Don’t get all defensive.” She squints at me. “You won’t tell me anything voluntarily. Mama Bear’s got no choice but to pull out her claws.”
I roll my eyes. “There’s nothing to spill. We’re just… seeing where it goes.” Which is a hell of a euphemism for I’m trying to ditch him but he’s trying to marry me and oh, by the way, it’s all your ex-husband’s fault.
But I’m a journalist. I was taught to simplify.
“Is that code for ‘fuck buddies’?”
I spit my ice cream through my nose. “Oh my God, Mom!”
“What? It’s a fair question.” She takes another bite of her cone. “Courtship rituals change with every generation. It’s perfectly normal.”
I sigh, slumping hard against the bench. “We’re not ‘fuck buddies.’ We’re more like…” I bury my face in my hands. “Why am I even telling you this?”
“Because I’m your mom and I’m awesome. Now, don’t stop. You’re more like…?”
I groan. This is all kinds of embarrassing. It’s like I’m suddenly fourteen again and enduring the third degree about Nate from gym class. “We’re just… circling.”
“‘Circling,’” she repeats.
“Yeah. Like, you know, vultures or something.”
“That’s awfully unromantic.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I assure you I do not.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” I remind her acidly. “You got married within a year of dreamy courtship. Dad rented a white horse for the wedding, even though you were both broke. You’re basically a fairy tale in a cocktail dress.”
She shrugs. “I wouldn’t have married for anything less. Even if it didn’t give me a happily ever after, that doesn’t mean it wasn’t worth trying for. Love is always a leap.”
My heart tugs at that. Of all people, Mom deserved that more than anyone: a fairy tale ending. I can’t think of a single person who’s more romantic than her, or who believes in True Love—capital T and L—with the same fervor. If my dream is to become a top notch reporter, hers has always been to be whisked away in a carriage with doves pulling the reins. To experience a romance for the ages, no matter the obstacles.
But Baba didn’t give her that. He didn’t make her a princess—he made her an empress. To an empire of shadows and darkness she knew nothing of and wanted no part in.
She tried to adjust. She really did. But tigers can’t change their stripes, and people can’t change their dreams.
Not even for the sake of someone they love.
“Honey, what’s wrong?” Like always, Mom reads my mood shift immediately. “Is it something I said?”
“No, Mama, I—”
“You know I don’t resent your father. It’s all water under the bridge. And besides, he gave me you. That’s the most important thing.”
I shake my head and smile. It’s a little bit sad, a little bit sweet, but that’s our entire relationship in a nutshell. With our history, it’s all we can do to focus on the good while leaving the bad in a dusty old box labeled The Past — Do Not Open.
“I just… I don’t know if he’s a good person. This hunk. I mean, he’s good to me, but he’s like…” I trail off, unable to finish that sentence.
“Like your father?”
“Please don’t say it like that. It makes it sound so Freudian.”
A cheeky smile plays on her lips. “You know, the problem with our marriage wasn’t your father’s… ahem, activities. It was that I didn’t know about them. He kept it all a secret for so long that I just watched him change without knowing why. And he got to make that choice, but I didn’t. If he’d discussed his plans with me, if he’d told me sooner… Who knows?”
Who knows? It’s the biggest “What If” of my life: what if Dad had been honest? What if he’d made Mom a part of his world before his world consumed him?
Or what if he’d left it all behind? What if he’d given it up to work alongside her in that little hole-in-the-wall Greek restaurant she waitressed at? What if, eventually, he managed to buy it? What if they’d lived out a modest, happy life behind that counter?
How would our story have ended then? How would Jasmine’s have ended?
But there’s no answer. And the story isn’t over yet, not quite. Despite everything, I know Mom still cares deeply for Dad. I know Dad feels the same. I hold no illusions, but who knows? With time, maybe…
Maybe your broken home might finally be mended.
Maybe your mom would get her happy ending.
And maybe your dad would remember what it was like to love you like a daughter instead of an asset.
That’s why I can’t tell her, even if it breaks my heart to lie to her. If Mama knew Baba was behind this, that he auctioned off my hand behind my back and threatened me into going along with it, she wouldn’t stand for it. She’d get involved and she’d be fierce about it.
I can’t let her do that. I can’t let her burn that bridge for good.
And I definitely can’t let her near any mafia business ever again. Not when she’s been sober from the stuff for fifteen years straight.
“So what are you saying?” I slump, my gaze moving to the lake. The Quackdashian family is whole and well, teaching their ducklings to swim before the weather grows too cold. “If I know all the dirty details, then it’s okay?”
“I’m saying there are no wrong choices, dear. Only different ones.”
I glance up at the sky. Clouds are gathering fast, smooth and white and endless. This year, we might get a White Christmas yet.
And before then, I’ll have to make my choice.
