“And you probably are worried Amanda is going to go the way of Catey?”
I tap my nose with my index finger, thinking of Lane too, of how he makes this gesture. “Bingo.”
“Well, what could you do differently so that doesn’t happen?”
I narrow my eyes at Caroline. “It’s not my fault that friendship ended.”
“I didn’t say it was your fault. I was simply asking what you could do differently.”
I don’t answer. I don’t want to answer. Instead, I say, “I think I should go.”
“Is that what you want to do?”
I hold up my hands, sharply. “Why are you just asking me questions and spouting platitudes? You’re like the caricature of a shrink right now.”
She nods thoughtfully. “I understand why you feel that way.”
“You’re doing it still!”
She’s silent.
I point a finger at her, as all my frustration over last night’s sound show unspools in Caroline’s lap. “Ugh! That makes me even crazier!”
“Now, you’re talking, Kennedy. Now you’re speaking the truth. This is what you should say to your mom.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You just told me exactly what you think of me. Try that with your mom. Tell her how her actions make you feel. Tell her the truth,” she says, with a fierce edge to her tone.
I close my eyes, slide down farther, my butt touching the edge of the cushions, my back a crushed “C” against the couch. “I can’t,” I say, deflated.
“You can.”
“I shouldn’t have lied to my dad,” I blurt out.
“You can tell the truth anytime.”
When it’s time to go I leave Caroline’s office and walk past the lobby, knowing Lane is waiting for me outside. I’m not ready to see him. I lean against the wall by the elevators, grateful for a break from talking and from trying to figure out why I’m so messed up about life and love.
But am I really that messed up? Was it so wrong for me to be with Noah? I’m tired of holding back, tired of waiting, tired of pretending he is not what I want right now, when he is the very thing I want and I need.
He is the opposite.
I take out my phone because I can’t resist him right now. I simply can’t not reach out to him.
Hi. Wish I were with you right now.
There. I sent it before regret washes over me. There is no regret.
I punch the button in the elevator, and when I reach the ground floor I feel a buzzing in my back pocket, and the possibility that it could be from him sends a delicious thrill though me.
I grab my phone and my fingers feel slippery as I slide it open.
It’s a number I don’t recognize. I pick it up.
“Hi, is this Kennedy Stanzlinger?”
It’s a woman’s voice.
“Yes,” I answer.
“This is Doreen Lipshitz. I think you may have sent me a letter.”
Chapter Twelve
Kennedy
I want to set Doreen Lipshitz up with my Dad. She is perfect for him. She works at a nonprofit that raises money for arts education. She has a soft but clear voice. Her dark hair is long and curly and her warm eyes are a chocolate brown. I’m sure she is my father’s long-lost soul mate. I can picture them strolling through galleries in Florence together, arm in arm. He’ll point out a painting to her. She’ll share some amazing detail with him. They’ll laugh, sit down in the palazzo, and have cappuccinos.
The only problem is she’s still married to Craig Lipshitz. She wears her wedding band, a shiny silver thing, and she also has a gigantic rock next to it. I bet it’s a so sorry gift from him.
“How did you know?” I ask. “How did you know I sent the letter?”
We’re sitting on a bench tucked inside one of the entrances to Central Park. The start-and-stop afternoon traffic from just beyond is the background music to our conversation. The school day is over; I couldn’t wait for it to end and meet her—she was as kind on the phone yesterday as she seems to be now. She told me she still had my number because she’d saved my contact info long ago from the night I called her to confirm she’d attend the party.
Mrs. Lipshitz shrugs, a sweet kind of shrug, as if it’s obvious. “It wasn’t that hard to figure out.”
My face flushes momentarily, and I look away. She places a hand on my arm. “I don’t mean that in a bad way. What I mean is, given the context of the letter, given the handwriting, I was able to put the pieces together.”
“What does that mean? It looks like it was written by a kid?”
She laughs, but it’s a reassuring laugh. “No. It looks like it was written by a young woman.”
Now I laugh. “Euphemism for teenager.”
“I remember you from your parent’s parties. You were like your mom’s crown jewel. She made sure everyone knew who you were.”
I should be embarrassed. But yet, I feel this strange burst of pride in me. Because even when my mom was on, even when she was the belle of her own ball, she never left me out. “I talked to you at one of the parties. You were nice to me. And I was only in seventh grade then.”
“You never seemed like a seventh grader. I’m sure you get that a lot, don’t you? People always thinking you’re older? Because you just had this sense about you. A maturity. And that’s why when I received the letter, it had that same sense of maturity, sort of a worldliness. A knowledge about the adult world, about adult matters.”