Chapter 12

how badly do we feel about kidnapping on a scale from one to ten

Fallon sends the text as we’re walking into the hotel lobby after the show, and a selfie pings through right behind it. It’s early morning where she is. She’s grinning in the photo with her cheek pressed against a little girl’s; they both have mango rind over their teeth, so their smiles are mottled red and orange. The background’s all rust-colored sand and baobab trees, pale morning sun.

because this child is the best friend i’ve ever had no offense to you

That child has parents!!I send back, and the typing bubble appears immediately.

maybe *they’d* adopt *me* then? would you visit me in uganda?

I’ll literally come right now.

that bad, huh? food poisoning again?

Something like that.

Camilla spared me from responding to the Sex Summit lady; her laugh was charming as twinkle lights as she told the audience how embarrassing it is for me to talk about intimacy in front of my mother. “Just look at her blushing,” she said, though what was happening with my face felt more like arson than a blush.

“That weekend was really about bodily autonomy,” Camilla went on. “Our teenagers deserve to know themselves, to understand their bodies and their pleasure. As mothers we can make those things taboo, or we can face the facts: our babies are going to have sex. I know, I know!” Laughs and shouts of mock horror, Camilla’s conspiratorial little smile. “It might not be today, it might not be tomorrow, but it’s going to happen someday. And we’re all better off when we create safe spaces for them to talk about it, instead of shrouding the topic in fear.”

And I just sat there, trapped. Unable to run away this time, as she treated me like the subject of a lesson plan rather than a live human being.

The rest of the show had been softball questions: Did Camilla have any new books planned? (never say never!); if you could only make it to one of Saint’s quarterly retreats, which one was best? (Aspen in October); did I plan to follow in my mother’s footsteps and pursue a counseling degree? (no). Then there was the endless signing line, my scribbled name on the title page of Letters to My Someday Daughter alongside my mother’s. It was nearly ten when we left the theater.

ok well you know you can tell me, Fallon says now. even if it’s pukey

I know.I send her a white heart emoji, but the truth is I don’t want to get into it. I know both of us remember what actually went down during the Sex Summit all too well, but it’s not something we talk about. My embarrassment lives inside me like a sleeping beast; if I don’t look at it, don’t wake it up, don’t remind it of its hunger, I can keep it at bay. But talking about what happened back then—what I put her through, and the spectacular depth of my failure—wakes it right up. Gnashing and feral and ready to devour me.

also we had inflight wifi, she sends, and I googled dr. stone on the way over here. did you know the lab she works in is the only one in the US dedicated to endo research? know we were *not* about cam’s plans for you this summer but that lady is a certified badass

Of course I know. I spent the week before committing to this tour searching for Sadie Stone like a truffle pig. I sniffed her out everywhere she existed to be sniffed out. I read her paper in the New England Journal of Medicine about her lab’s first-of-its-kind research to find a long-term therapy for endometriosis. I read all her reviews on American University’s RateMyProfessor page. I even watched a YouTube video of her crossing the stage at her undergrad graduation. It appeared to have been uploaded by her dad and had seven total views.

Sadie Stone is a certified badass. And when she files into the lobby behind us, casting a wave and a good night over one shoulder, I realize that she has a copy of Letters to My Someday Daughter tucked under her arm. It’s one of the new hardcovers, wrapped in that photo of Camilla and me. Why would she, a credible scientist, ever want to read something like Letters?

“Hey, we’re going to the Haight.”

I blink away from Sadie to find Mick standing right in front of me, hand stretched out like he was about to jostle my arm to get my attention. He lets it fall to his side.

“Walk around, maybe grab some drinks.” He jerks a thumb toward Silas and Cleo, who are standing a few feet behind him playing a complicated hand-clapping game that looks like it’s meant for third graders at summer camp. Silas messes it up, laughing loudly, and Cleo bops him on the side of the head. “You wanna join?”

He’s watching me expectantly, all olive skin and dark eyebrows, black hair slicked back. For just a moment I let myself imagine it: walking unfamiliar streets in a city I’ve never been to, the evening cool and dark, taking a few hours’ vacation from my life into theirs. But Ethan stayed up so I could call him about today’s Penn lecture. None of us are even twenty-one. And, of course, the plainest truth of the matter: I don’t do things like this.

“No,” I say. I draw a breath, tuck my phone back into my pocket. “I have some work I need to do.”

“Work?” Mick says, halfway to laughter. “On a Friday night in June?”

Silas and Cleo look over at us, drawn by his laugh.

“Yes,” I say, and even I can hear how defensive it sounds. “I’m not going to waste my summer.”

“Waste it?” Cleo echoes, her voice rising in the stone-floored lobby. She takes a step closer to us; her eyeliner is neon, painted in flares around her eyelids. Everything about her is sharp and crackling. “By having some fun?”

“Cleo.” Silas nudges her elbow, glancing at me and then away. “If she doesn’t want to come, she doesn’t want to come. It’ll be what it’ll be.”

“I’m just saying,” Cleo says. “Shame to spend your last childhood summer studying.”

But that’s not what this is—not really. I can’t remember the last time I felt like a child.

“Come on, Mick.” Cleo wraps one green-nailed hand around his wrist and tugs. “You tried.”

Mick lifts a hand in my direction as she shepherds him into the night. When Silas makes to follow them, he glances up at me, just briefly, before they’re gone.