Chicago, Illinois

“Your mother isn’t answering her phone.”

Heather wished she hadn’t answered the FaceTime call. Her grandmother loomed at her, holding the phone too close as usual, so the screen was all big pink-lipsticked fish lips.

“Isn’t she?” Heather strove for mildness, even though she felt the usual wave of stress at the mention of her mother. She stole a glance at the Post-it note stuck to the windowsill behind her computer. All my emotions have a place at the table, was scrawled in Sharpie on the lime-green square, even the uncomfortable ones. Heather took a deep breath and rose from her desk—calls with Bon-Bon were never quick. She felt her back crick as she stood; she’d been working, hunched over, for hours.

Heather kept her gaze fixed on the patchwork of Post-its that had built up on the windowsill and the wall since she’d downloaded her e-therapy app. Don’t look back, you’re not going that way, on brooding purple; I am allowed to take a break, on blue; Good things are coming, on Sunkist soda–coloured orange.

Working at home hadn’t been good for Heather. She spent all day on her ass, in sweatpants and a nice sweater (relaxed on the bottom, ready for Zooming on top), eating junk and sweating deadlines that only seemed to hide more deadlines. This wasn’t how she’d imagined her life. She’d imagined herself in shafts of sunlight, the apartment clean and zen-like, an idyll out of Architectural Digest. But actually, working from home meant that she was stuck in her sloppy, ordinary life all the time. The hour when she used to commute just filled up with work. There was no more walking through the seasons—there was only watching clouds and rain and snow through her window. When she remembered to look up. She missed Chicago. Sitting here, staring at a screen, she could be anywhere at all. Or nowhere at all.

Be where you are, a yellow Post-it chided her.

“Are you listening to me?”

Heather tried to smile at Bon-Bon on FaceTime. “Yes, Bon.”

“When was the last time you spoke to her?” Bon-Bon demanded.

“Who? Mom?” Heather carried her phone in front of her as she did a lap of her one-bedroom apartment, massaging her tight lower back with her knuckles. By the time she reached the bed she was walking a little easier.

“You have spoken to her?” Bon was getting sharp. Sharper. Because when was Bon ever not sharp?

“Yeah, of course,” Heather lied. She’d been dodging Mom’s calls for a while. She didn’t want to hear about Dad’s affairs, or about the latest round of the divorce, which was a blood sport. He was her father. Sure, he was a lying, cheating, self focused, immature dick, but he was still her dad. It’s okay to set boundaries. Many hours of late-night therapy with a series of calm online therapists had led to that pink Post-it. Boundaries certainly weren’t a problem anymore with Dad, though, as he’d barely spoken to her since he and Mom broke up. It was as though when his marriage dissolved, Heather’s relationship with him had dissolved too.

“When did you speak to your mother?” Bon-Bon demanded.

Heather could see a flash of sky on the phone as Bon-Bon moved outside. God, look at that. It was clear blue skies in Tucson, with bright sunshine. So bright Bon-Bon slid sunglasses on.

Maybe all Heather needed was some blue skies and sunshine. She looked out her window at the grey day. As much as she loved Chicago, sometimes she missed Arizona, mostly during the slush end of winter, which dragged into spring.

“When?” Bon was relentless.

“I spoke to her a couple of days ago,” Heather lied. She was lying a lot lately. Like when she’d told her now-ex-boyfriend Shawn there was someone else. It was the only way she could get him to accept the breakup. Although even now he insisted on calling it a “break” rather than a “breakup.” The breakup itself was another result of It’s okay to set boundaries.

“And how was she?” Bon-Bon asked. “Jacqui says she’s bad?”

Oh, thank God Aunt Jacqui was talking to Mom. That made Heather feel a little less guilty about dodging her calls. Aunt Jacqui was the brisk type, she could manage Heather’s mother, Sandy.

“She was the same the last time I spoke to her.” That wasn’t a lie.

“Bad,” Bon-Bon said grimly.

“Bad,” Heather agreed. Her palms were sweating. She hated the thought of Mom’s sadness.

Bon swore and pressed her bright pink lips together. The image on the screen jostled as she lowered herself to the edge of her pool and sat down.

“It’s warm enough there to get in the pool?” Heather focused on the sparkling blue water and unsuccessfully tried to stay in the moment. There was a terrace pool in Heather’s apartment building, but she’d moved in at the beginning of winter and so she hadn’t used it yet. She couldn’t wait until summer to dive in. Even though she worried about avoiding Shawn at the pool, as well as in the corridors. . . .