And then they’re back on me, wanting to know all about my life in Pasadena. I can tell Morgan is dying to talk about Maura some more, but she refrains, thankfully.

Might as well call this place Forks, because I am definitely Bella fucking Swan today.

CHAPTER THREE

Maura doesn’t even last one day with the nurturing, protective act, much to my relief. I’m left to find my own way home, and the barest slip of normalcy is a balm. Instead of the one-block trip direct to Maura’s, I detour in the direction of downtown, savoring a canopy of deciduous trees that line the sidewalk, and the occasional towering palm on a street corner.

The houses are cookie-cutter California classics, a mix of dilapidated Craftsmans, compact ranches, and baby Victorians. No cars pass. The ones tucked neatly into each driveway are a blast from the past. Lots of boxy station wagons and sedans, like out of a nineties movie. I inhale sweet, crisp air. It tastes fresh.

I miss the sooty, sunny excess of Los Angeles, but I can’t help thinking my mom walked these streets. I hop over a sidewalk tile cracked by the root of a towering tree and imagine her doing the same. Fresh-faced and seventeen, planning her great escape, dreaming about her future.

Judging by the look of things, the town hasn’t changed much from when she was my age. The storefronts feature hand-lettered wooden signs, not a name-brand store or fast-food joint in sight. I’ve reached the main thoroughfare, the hum of cars on the PCH nearby. No, it’s the 1, I correct myself. Calling it the PCH signals me as a Southern Californian, an outsider. But is there any point in talking like the locals if I don’t plan on staying? My mom had the right idea: get through and get out. People here are nice enough, but I don’t belong.

Amid mom-and-pop supply stores, grubby-looking bars, and the odd dispensary, I spot a diamond in the rough. A bookstore. GRABEL’S BOOKS says the marquee above the door, and to the right in a wide picture window: my grandmother’s face. Her whole body, in fact. There’s a life-sized cutout of her next to stacks upon stacks of her books. THE EXCLUSIVE HOME OF MAURA WESTON’S SIGNED COLLECTION boasts a sign. And a poster affixed to the window. And a nearby telephone pole.

WESTONCON! HOTEL SEAVIEW, OCTOBER 13–16. TICKETS AVAILABLE!

My grandmother is so ubiquitous there’s a fan convention for her next weekend. Jesus. Suddenly, I’ve lost the urge to shop for reading material, so I test my sense of direction, guessing my way to Maura’s monster Victorian.