Page 144 of Running
No different from what I observed after Jasmine confessed her own struggles with her ex.
This is not who I want to be.
As I sit here stewing, I can’t move past the regret I’m feeling. If only I had made myself push through my hurt, spoken up to someone, maybe I wouldn’t be in this place today.
I boxedmyselfin, limited myself, by not taking action. By accepting what he said.
I don’t want to regret anything else.
And there’s one situation that’s been nagging at me for months, dangerously close to the surface most of the time, even as I try to avoid it.
I pull out my phone and click out a long overdue text.
GRACE: Mom, can we talk?
It’s been over a month since we had a one-on-one call, and my texts to her have been sporadic, usually occurring during a group text exchange.
She FaceTimes me five minutes after my text. I’m still sitting on the bench, revved up with emotion. Maybe I should move to a more private location, but I don’t want to lose my head of steam.
“Hello, Grace,” she says, her tone crisp. “To what do I owe the pleasure of a call?”
I’m direct in response. “Hi, Mom. I have some news.”
She doesn’t follow up on that statement, instead studying me. “What’s this new look? You don’t have your face on. With those blonde lashes, you really need a pop of something on your eyes.”
“Mom, no one says ‘have your face on’ anymore, first of all.” Normally, I would temper my words, but my tolerance is non-existent right now.
“That’s not true,” she argues.
“Second of all, I’m just not into wearing a bunch of makeup. It’s not me. I did it when I was younger because you said to, but I’m an adult now, you know?”
“I don’t see what that has to do with looking your best.”
I don’t answer her. There’s not really a point.
“I wanted to let you know that I got a job for after businessschool. I’ll be working as a business manager for soccer players, under this really gre?—”
“A business manager? Soccer? I don’t understand.”
I try to put in terms she’ll appreciate. “The clients are elite athletes, like Landon, only in soccer. And my boss is one of the best in the country. His client roster is amazing, and I’ll be helping manage their financial and business interests.”
She’s quiet for a moment, looking like she’s considering her options in responding. Finally, she picks a direction.
“Have you heard back from any of your applications yet?”
“What applications, Mom?”
“Your law school applications,” she says, with the utter confidence that I’ve actually applied anywhere. Is she gaslighting me? Herself? I’m confused.
“Mom, I haven’t applied anywhere. Why do you think that I did?”
She looks genuinely surprised. “What? I thought that’s been the plan? We’ve talked about it so many times.”
“You’vetalked about it. I’ve barely responded lately when you brought it up. A total one-sided conversation.”
Mom’s voice intensifies. “Watch how you talk to me, Grace.”
Her manner immediately causes me to shut down—it’s a reflex. I hate evoking this side of her, feeling like I’m disappointing her. But then my frustration roars back in return, and I find the courage to say something.
