“Maybe so, but you’re wrong about one thing,” she says, pointing a finger in my direction. “You’ll always be my child, and I’ll always be your parent. And see, that’s the difference between me and Henry Zabka. No matter how badly I’ve screwed up sometimes, I’m here for you, right now, and I’ve always wanted you, every single day you’ve drawn breath. So I’m sorry if that’s disappointing—I’m sorry I’ve dragged you around from town to town, and I’m sorry I wasn’t the parent you wanted. I’m sorry I wasn’t the famous photographer and just plain old cursed Winona Saint-Martin. But for better or worse, you’re stuck with me, aren’t you? Because if you try to leave me, I swear to all things holy, I will chase you down, Josie. You’re not an adult yet, and I’m still your mother, even if you hate my guts.”

Shaking and upset, she tosses the box of supplies back beneath the counter and yanks out another one, plopping it down by the register with a loud thud to angrily search through its motley contents. One of Grandma’s Nepalese postcards falls off its taped anchor and flutters to the floor.

All I can do is watch her in a daze, rocked to my core. Heartbroken. It feels as if she’s taken a rock and smashed all my dreams like I smashed the Summers & Co window. Only, no one can bail me out this time. Not even Lucky.

Funny that I thought once he might be a mirage. The real mirage was Henry Zabka.

I don’t have a father.

I don’t have a mentor.

Los Angeles is just a city, not a utopian place where all my troubles will fall away.

Nothing’s real. I’m stuck here with no exit strategy when the ticking time bomb goes off.

It was all a lie.

Neither of us speaks for a long moment while she tears through the box of supplies, making a racket inside the quiet, dark shop. Then I remember something she said, and it aligns with a puzzle piece that’s stuck inside the back of my head.

The invisible wall isn’t just down between us, it’s collapsed for good. Might as well put it all out there now. So I ask in a soft voice, “Who’s Drew?”

Her hands still inside the box. But she says nothing.

“I saw his inscription inside your high school yearbook,” I say. “And I’m pretty sure he was in the navy and came back to town. I know Aunt Franny was surprised you were willing to come back to Beauty with him here. Who’s Drew, Mom?” I ask again.