Page 100 of Fundamentals of Being a Good Girl
She nods once and then lets out a long burp followed by a happy sigh. “Sorry, my whole life is basically a Russian roulette of bodily functions right now.” She frowns. “I almost peed my pants last week.”
“That sounds terrifying,” I tell her.
“It is... humbling, and I say that as someone who actually got stuck while filming a stuck porn.”
That makes me laugh for the first time in weeks. Bee is a semiretired sex worker turned bona fide Hollywood actress and is way too good for my brother, but at least he knows it.
“The dark hair is a good look, by the way.” She nudges me with her elbow. “Your mom actually cried when you sent her a selfie from the salon. You just look like you.”
Mom tried to hide her worry when I began to change into this predetermined person whose purpose was to complement Gentry, but the blond hair really bothered her. She tried to disguise her concern and tell me that it was a nice change or that it was good to be adventurous, but I felt angry with her for not seeing that this was what I’d wanted.
Of course, my mother knows better than anyone else that I have to make my own mistakes. Even if that mistake cheats on you after encouraging you to turn into a person you hardly know, only to dispose of you for never quite fulfilling their vision of the ideal partner.
The rest of Thanksgiving Day is a rotating door of familiar faces from the life Bee and Nolan have built here. There’s a FaceTime call from his best friend, Kallum, his wife, Winnie, and their ever-growing brood, who are back in Kansas City visiting family.
Bee’s best friend, Sunny, swings through with her husband and Nolan’s former bandmate, Isaac (who also holds the honor of being my first crush—along with that of many other girls, except I had to suffer the pain of him witnessing me hit puberty). They only stay for a moment on their way to spend a month visiting every Christmas market they can manage in search of the perfect hot nuts and with a scheme to hit as many photo booths as they can. Their oddly specific plan feels like an inside joke that none of us are privy to. The monthlong journey will culminate in their meeting up with Isaac’s old bodyguard, Krysta, and her wife, Addison, while the four of them hole up for the holidays in Edinburgh. They are very adamant that I one day visit their favorite hotel there, The Balmoral, and say hello to their favorite whisky ambassador, Fraser. I nod along and jot his name down in my phone. I smile and pretend like there will ever be a time when I might want to go on a grand adventure like that with someone I love.
Around dessert, we are treated to a parade of Bee’s former colleagues from her adult-film career. There’s Luca, the costume designer, and his animator husband, Angel. They tell us about their (really, Luca’s) plans to host a New Year’s party while in LA that would make Martha Stewart jealous. And then there’s Steph and her husband, Teddy, the sometimes porn producer andthecurrent name in the Christmas movie biz. I remember meeting him as an older teenager and him always slipping me hard candy and five-dollar bills like I was still young enough to believe in Santa Claus. He and his wife leave early because they have to get home to the two absolutely unstable German shepherds they have recently adopted before they both escape their crates and eat the couch for the second time.
By the time the house is quiet and free of visitors, Bee’s moms are yawning from the two-hour time difference and excuse themselves to bed for an early night.
In a totally out of character move, Mom leaves the kitchen full of dirty dishes for tomorrow. “All I want is for the four of us to sit down with some hot cider and turn on the fireplace,” she says.
“Mom, it’s seventy-four degrees out,” I tell her as my body melts into the velvet sofa that is flush with beautiful throw pillows as well as slightly disturbing embroidered ones with a focus on eyeballs that speak to Bee and Nolan’s offbeat style.
“Don’t tell Greta Thunberg,” Bee says as she flops down across from me and adjusts the air-conditioning app on her phone to an obscenely low number that would definitely piss off Greta.
Nolan flicks on the fireplace and Mom bustles in with a tray carrying four steaming mugs.
Sitting here in this dark room, surrounded by the three closest people in my life, I’m able to inhale deeply for the first time in weeks.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Maddie
Growing up, no matter how hard things were, Mom always went to great efforts to create holiday magic for us. It warms me to my core to know that, with the help of Bee and Nolan, the picturesque ideal Mom had always strived to create in our old, little house (that had the worst insulation but somehow never felt cold) is possible. The reality of the holidays finally has met the version in her head.
Life is tumultuous and uncertain and full of an aching pain right now, but I can at least say that I am no longer worried for the well-being of my mother. I know that she is taken care of now. It’s not as though we never had the desire to before, but money. Fucking money. It always came down to money. And I’m filled with a fiery anger all over again—the same anger that had me falling for Gentry and the future we could build. The anger that had me eagerly saying yes to Veronica Balentine and the power she could help me garner. The power to make a dent in our broken—no, nonexistent—mental health services.
Mom sits down next to me, and Nolan passes over a cozy blanket for us to share. I take a sip of my cider before setting it down and laying my head in Mom’s lap.
She makes a pleased noise as her soft, dish soap–scented fingers brush through my hair.
A single tear slides over the bridge of my nose and into the line of my hair.
“Why are you crying and what have you done with my sister?” Nolan asks.
Bee smacks himhardon the arm and he chokes on his cider.
“What?” he asks. “The only time I can remember Maddie crying when we were kids was when INK broke up because she was using a quote from Kallum as an INK endorsement when she ran for class secretary in fifth grade.”
“It was a weak campaign,” I tell them. “You know it’s bad when your platform is that you’re INK approved.”
Mom smooths my hair back and my bangs away from my forehead. “Is it Gentry?” Her voice drips with an indignation I did not think her capable of. “I can’t believe anyone voted for that buffoon.”
“No, actually,” I tell them. “I mean, yes. It starts with Gentry.”
“You know what,” Bee says, her finger jabbing angrily in the air. “You’re broken up, so I can just say it now. I hate that motherfucker and I always have.”
