8. The Good Thing

Juliet

New day. New chance to be my best self. Just like Badass Babe would say in her podcast. Every day you can be a better version of you.

Today I am the good daughter version as I head to the back door to find Monroe. He woke up early—of course he did—and left a note saying that he'd be in the shed checking out tools and stuff.

I'm jittery, but at least I'm dressed, made up, and ready now, so I wander through the house texting my sister as I go.

Juliet: Wish me luck. I'm going to see Mom in a bit. She said she has news for me. Anything I need to know?

Rachel: Um…is this a trick question?

Juliet: She said it was a good thing. Shit, is she preggers?

Rachel responds with a Home Alone gif of Kevin's shocked face.

Juliet: Okay, not that :). But what do we think it is?

Rachel: I don't know, but you'd better tell me after! I demand it. Also, how's the house?

Juliet: It's sexy. Yes, that's apparently a thing.

Rachel: And is it a good thing?

I smile, feeling a little less jittery as I reply with a simple It's just a thing. Because that is really all it is.

Then, I drop my phone in my pocket, and swing open the back door into the bright summer sunshine of a Monday morning. Across the emerald-green yard teeming with pink and purple wildflowers sits a work shed painted a deep red, like a farmhouse. The wooden barn door is wide open. I can just catch the outline of Monroe's silhouette, the cut of his shoulders, the muscles in his arms.

"Did you find tools and other manly stuff?" I call out.

Monroe emerges, holding a wrench. Not a bad look at all, especially in those trim jeans and a San Francisco Cougars T-shirt.

"Told you I was handy, and I'm going to prove it to you."

"Of course you are," I say, though I'm grateful for the morning distraction of chitchat. I'm still frazzled thinking about Mom. I want to make everything right for her. If only I could. I worry about her more than Dad because she's always seemed to need him more. "And what is this proof, Mister Handy?"

"I fixed the chain on the bikes." Monroe waggles the wrench.

"Bikes?"

"Those things that have two wheels that you pedal."

I huff. "I know what a bike is."

"Want to ride into town?"

"I thought we were going to drive?" Riding a bike feels like a project, and I'm not sure how many projects I have in me this morning.

"You're such a city girl," he says dryly.

"You're a city boy! You lived in New York and now San Francisco."

"But bikes are fun, city girl," he goads.

Maybe. But not when you're dressed and already nervous. I'm wearing jeans, platform sandals, and a crop top. My hair is blown dry, and I've traded out my ladybug necklace for my heart pendant today. Rachel has a matching heart one. Seems fitting for today's mission, a sign of sisterly support and all, though Rachel's the better daughter and has already seen Mom post-divorce.

"I'm not really in bike riding clothes," I say, then I pat my hair, piling on the excuses. "And I did my hair and everything. And I'd have to wear a helmet."

Ugh. I sound like I'm terrified of riding a bike. But the truth is I'm not one of those girls who looks good after a workout. Pretty sure the women Monroe usually dates do though.

Not that I've looked them all up. But if I had looked up a few on Instagram, I could have said with confidence his dates are the kind of women who can cruise along the boardwalk on a mint green bike, singing folk songs in a perfect soprano pitch, and still look fabulous even without a stitch of makeup on.

Me? I don't leave the gym dewy and rose-cheeked. I leave sweaty and panting. I'm already nervous. I don't need to add to that.

But Monroe's in a teasing mood it seems, since he advances toward me, saying, "You can tell me the truth." He's striding across the lawn with a sly smile curving his lips, mirth in his eyes.

"What truth?" I counter.

"That you don't know how to ride a bike."

I scoff. "Shut up. I do."

"It's okay, Juliet. I can teach you. I like to teach."

No kidding. His entire online persona centers on teaching listeners about emotions. "I'm aware, Love Doctor. But I didn't think your emotional fluency includes how to bike," I say, sassing him right back.

"Bikes can be very emotional, Juliet. They take us back to childhood," he says, and he's not dropping the routine, but the playful spark in his eyes reminds me he's having fun.

"Then tell me your deep emotional scars from childhood caused by a bike," I tease.

But the spark in his blue eyes shifts. Turns to something more vulnerable. That's rare in Monroe, who stops a foot away from me now. "Well, I do have this scar." He points to the faded scar on his chin, a pinkish white against his fair skin. "Courtesy of a Christmas gift ten-speed when I was five. I flew over the handlebars when I was riding on New Year's Day. Landed face-first on the sidewalk when my mom was teaching me. Sliced my chin open. Needed to go to the ER for stitches. My dad stitched me up."

Oh. Wow. He hardly ever talks about his mom. "How long did it take for you to get back on?"

"The next day. Thanks to my mom."

I'm hungry for this story. "What did she say?"

"She said we could stop riding or keep trying. It was up to me."

That's kind of a nice story, and it's also good advice—the up to you part. Sometimes we don't truly make decisions for ourselves. Maybe even most of the time. "And you kept going?"

"Yes. And biking turned out to be my favorite thing to do in town," he says, then stage whispers, "even if it ruined my blow-dried hair."

I swat his very firm chest. Way for him to end an unexpectedly sweet story. "I just want to look good for my mom," I admit.

"I'm just giving you a hard time. Let me change and we can drive."

He wedges past me into the house. I catch a whiff of his scent. He smells like the shea butter and rosemary soap he bought that summer. My mind starts to meander back into the summer memories, but then I latch onto the words he's just said.

Biking is his favorite thing to do when he's in town.

Monroe isn't an overly indulgent man. Yes, he likes his espressos. He enjoys his expensive scotch. And he likes his electric car. But he's not demanding or needy. He doesn't require a lot of watering.

Being here in Darling Springs can't be easy for him with the memories of his mother and the reality of his father.

What's a little sweat between co-workers? I turn around and call out, "If the helmet is pink, I'm in."

The helmet is not pink. It's fire engine red, and probably doing a number on my hair. But it turns out, The Ladybug Inn is only a mile away and the roads are flat, and my city girl mind was somehow—ridiculous, I know—imagining I'd have to crest hills and battle traffic on two wheels.

Instead, I'm enjoying the curving country road along the water, the sunshine warming my shoulders, and the sea breeze kicking up the ends of my hair. Soon, we're pedaling up to the inn, remarkably undrenched. That wasn't so bad after all.

After we lock the bikes on a rack painted with ladybugs, I unclip my helmet. Monroe side-eyes me. Oh shit. Am I wrong? Do I look like I'm a leading candidate for slots one through five in a top-five BuzzFeed Bad Hair Days list?

"What is it?"

He steps closer, lifts a hand, then says, "Your hair."

I'm right. It is bad.

"Just a touch out of place," he says, then smooths out an errant strand near my shoulder. A tingle spreads down my chest. Now I suddenly want every strand knocked wildly around my face so he can fix them.

One more stroke of his fingers. One more brush of his hand, then he lets go. "There."

I catch my breath. My heart's beating faster, especially when his eyes take a quick, furtive tour of me, then land on my neck. "No ladybug necklace?"

I half expect him to fiddle with the blingy heart one. I wholly want him to. "Not today. It felt too matchy-matchy. I'm pretty sure Mom picked this place anyway because of my ladybug phase."

His smile is devilish. "You had a ladybug phase?"

I roll my eyes but at myself. "Yes," I admit.

"Did you wear red with black polka dots all the time?"

"For a while," I grumble. "I was in second grade…and third grade."

His smile is infinite. "That's?—"

"Silly. I know."

He holds my gaze. "I was going to say…adorable."

The word comes out more sensual than its meaning. Adorable isn't just for children when he looks at me. "Thanks," I say, feeling unsteady in the stomach-flippy way.

But I can't linger in this fluttery little interlude. Time to set these shudders aside and face that weird place in every child's life when they become the comforters of their parents. I hope Mom's not in a bad place. I hope I can give her the support she needs.

We head into the café at The Ladybug Inn, where a silver-haired woman greets us wearing striped glasses and an apron that says, "I'm Pear-Shaped and Pears are Awesome."

"Welcome to the café at The Ladybug Inn. We have the best ladybug pancakes below the arctic circle—" She breaks off and her eyes pop out. "Monroe Jameson Blackstone! Am I seeing things, or is it the good doctor's son?"

His lips twitch like he's fighting off a cringe before he manages a smile. "That's me."

"Why don't you ever come back and see us?" She wags a finger, punctuating her playful demand, then scurries out from the hostess stand to throw her arms around him.

Monroe doesn't look as uncomfortable as I bet he feels. "Just busy in the city, that's all. But good to see you, Agatha."

"Ridiculous. You're never too busy to come back home more," she chides, keeping that hug going on and on.

Finally, Agatha releases him but not without a last reprimand. "Get that doctor butt home again soon. You hear me now? You should be seeing your dad more often."

Before Monroe can answer, I cut in, smiling brightly. "It's just so hard for him to get away," I say as I clasp his arm like a proud friend. "His clients adore him and depend on him. He can hardly leave."

Agatha whips her gaze to me. "Where are my manners?" She quickly introduces herself, then says, "And of course his clients love him. He's a Blackstone. Now, were you after a table for two?"

"Three," I reply. She grabs some menus and gestures to a booth at the back. We follow, weaving through the charming café, where everything's decked out thematically with red tablecloths and little bug illustrations as well as ladybug art on the walls—photographs alternating with illustrations.

"Here you go. And you be sure to come back for Christmas. With your dad retiring, he'll have all this free time, and he'll need you."

On that do-more-for-your-dad note, she returns to her post. Monroe inhales deeply, then blows out a big breath. My heart aches a little for him.

"Ironic, right?"

With his jaw set hard, he meets my eyes. "When I was a kid and needed him, he was too busy for me. But no one knows that because…"

"Because they see him as this brilliant surgeon from Darling Springs," I supply.

"Exactly. He barely spared a second for me after my mom died," Monroe rage-whispers, "but somehow I'm not here enough for him?" Then he quickly shakes his head, like he needs to eradicate those notions or perhaps just gain some distance from them. "But enough about me. You ready to see your mom?"

He'd almost always rather talk about someone else. I smooth a hand over my shirt. "To give her a pep talk after a breakup? As ready as I'll ever be."

"Talk about irony," he says.

A laugh catches my attention, and I snap my gaze to the doorway. There is my mom, smiling brightly, laughing with Agatha, looking nothing like Mom.

Agatha gestures to us, and Mom breezes in wearing not-mom jeans.

A not-mom shirt too. And not-mom shoes. It's like she stopped shopping for clothes at the same store where she buys her groceries and went to the boutique where the cool kids shop. She's dressed in high-waisted flare jeans, a wine-colored scoop-neck top, and platform Converse sneakers.

Her bangs have grown out, and they're swept into beach waves.

"Hello, sweetheart," she says, reaching the table. I pop up, and she draws me into a hug. "You look amazing. Radiant. Glowy. Thank you for meeting me."

"Anytime and thank you. Also, what's with the fashion makeover?" I blurt out when she lets go. Because this whole glow-up is throwing me off.

"Oh, this?" she asks, plucking at the jeans like she's just noticed what she's wearing. "Thanks. I hired a stylist." Before she can say more, she turns to my companion. "I'm so glad you could make it, Monroe. When Juliet told me you'd be coming, all I could think is that makes a good thing even better."

What is this good thing? I need to know, and I need to know, stat.

"You're looking great, Harriet," Monroe says. "It's a pleasure to see you again." They've met a few times through Sawyer, but she also knows him from the podcast. "And it looks like divorce is treating you well."

I love that he doesn't say I'm sorry you split. He doesn't offer a sympathetic frown. Instead, he embraces the changes in people's lives. It's the therapist in him. But I'm having a hard time embracing this new fashionable mom who's dangling a good thing in front of me.

"What's the good thing, Mom?"

With a serene smile that would make the Mona Lisa jealous, she whips out her phone. "This is the good thing. I need your help selecting which of my many online dating matches I should go out with first. I've started dating, and it's so much fun."

Up is down, right is left, and my off-the-market-for-thirty-five-years mother likes dating so much more than I do.

"Who are you, and what have you done with Harriet?"