I thought I was batting a thousand.

It’s hard to pinpoint exactly when it went completely off the rails. Was it when I uttered the words “senior year abroad”? Or was it “leaving home early”? Because she’d looked stunned. Stricken, almost. And then hurt. That was the part that surprised me the most, because I honestly thought she’d be relieved. With me in Paris, she could focus 100 percent of her time on her work as opposed to her regular 99 percent.

My mom and her business partner, Drew, have their entire staff assembled in our dining room for a meeting, and her voice floats from the open window. “A strong contingency plan is crucial for this event. There are a lot of moving parts, and I can’t risk damaging this relationship.”

She clearly isn’t worried about damaging our relationship. Why had my mom looked so petrified when I told her my idea? Is it because me going to Paris wasn’t her idea, and therefore she can’t micromanage it?

I look longingly toward the pool chair where my phone is perched. I want to talk all this through with Bea, but she is in an intensive ballet program this summer, practicing her arabesques and fouetté turns while being yelled at by a variety of terrifying ballet headmistresses. That means it will probably be another hour before I can expect to hear from her, and I am literally counting down the seconds.

Bea will know what to do. She always does. My pizza float bumps up against the wall and I push off with my feet, launching myself into the deep end. If I’m going to feel this adrift, I may as well be this adrift.

Mom’s voice again. “… we have to leave absolutely nothing to chance….”

I sigh and flop forward onto the pizza slice so my arms and legs can drag in the water. This is the problem. My mom has no tolerance for leaving things to chance, whereas I am in a constant state of wanting to take chances.

Last night had only highlighted the realization that had been creeping up on me for the past year or so. My mom and I are so different, we may as well be existing on separate continents, and no matter how much I want to pretend that isn’t painful, it is. A part of me had thought that once we arrived in LA, we’d build a mother-daughter relationship like the one Bea has with her mom, but two years in I only feel farther from her.

Maybe that’s part of my wanderlust. Once I’m out in the world, there will be a physical reason for the distance between my mom and me. Maybe then it won’t hurt so much?

“WILLLLLOOOOOOOOWWWW!”