Free The Edge of Falling by Rebecca Serle Page B

downward, toward the jewelry case. “Why?” I ask.
    “What do you mean, why?”
    “He must have had a reason. Why else would he comeover?” I can feel my neck start to heat up. I keep my face pointed low.
    “He told me you wouldn’t speak to him,” she says, fingering a gold bracelet. “He said he didn’t have a choice.”
    “He came to talk to you?” For just a moment, my confusion eclipses my anxiety. This conversation is unusual for a few reasons. Lately my mom isn’t too aware of what’s going on in our house. Frankly, I wasn’t even sure she knew Trevor and I had broken up. Also, my mom and I have never had that mother-daughter relationship where we tell each other everything. It isn’t our thing. She’s always just sort of let me live. I didn’t come to her when I was thinking of sleeping with Trevor. We don’t lie in bed together and talk about love. We’re not like that. If we ever were, we certainly aren’t now.
    “No,” she said. “He was hoping to catch you.”
    “He’s becoming a master of the ambush,” I say under my breath.
    “You two were close,” my mother says, like she hasn’t heard me.
    “Yeah, we were.” I busy myself with a counter display of dangly earrings.
    “Are you seeing anyone else?” she asks.
    The question startles me, and so does Astor’s face flashing across my mind without warning. To Claire’s disappointmentI didn’t give him my number. In my defense, he didn’t ask. I had a feeling if I offered it he would have said something like If it’s meant to be, we’ll see each other again. But we haven’t. Not in the last four days, anyway. It’s just that he keeps showing up in my head unannounced.
    “No,” I say. “It’s not like Kensington is crawling with great guys.” That’s true, too. Who am I going to date? Tripp? Even he is taken.
    My mother raises her eyebrows. “I think there are a lot of fine young men at Kensington. Some of the best—”
    I hold up my hand. “Mom, I’d rather wear gingham for the rest of my life than date someone named Archibald. Or Walter. Or Harrington.” I swear, every guy I know has a name that makes him sound like he could be my grandfather. Well, not my grandfather, but a grandfather. You get what I mean. And I guess, really, Astor is no exception. Except something about him felt like an exception. Something about him felt different.
    “What’s wrong with gingham?” For a moment I think she’s made a joke, but I’m wrong. She legitimately wants to know.
    “Let’s just go to lunch,” I say.
    “You’ve never been to LA?” Claire screeches when I pick up my cell to check in. They’re probably not getting married anytime soon, but it doesn’t seem like she’s in anyimmediate danger. I decide to hang up and face lunch head-on.
    *    *    *
    There is this restaurant, Phoebe’s, on East Sixty-Seventh, that my mom has been going to for years. Phoebe’s never ceases to depress me. For one, the food is terrible and yet the place is always packed. Sometimes the line for a table spills out to the sidewalk. For another, no one eats there. Not really. They have this caprese salad that tastes like rubber, and their sandwiches are sand infused. I’m not sure why it’s so popular, but it is, so people go. That’s the thing about the neighborhood I live in: Rarely does anyone stop to question why they’re doing the things they’re doing. It’s a good enough reason if everyone else is.
    When we get to Phoebe’s, Abigail is seated at a table with Constance and Samantha. Unsurprising. They are always here on Sundays.
    “Mcalister!” Abigail calls out when she sees me.
    My mother slides her sunglasses up on top of her head and gives me an eye. Abigail is never this friendly to me in public. Even my mother knows that.
    “Hey.” I wave at them, searching desperately for a table on the other side of the restaurant. Too late. Abigail calls us over with her hand, and my mother, God help her, goes. I drag