Greta didn’t look back, but Shelly’s voice sounded like she was following them.

“Well, I’m not!” Then, in a very different voice, “My daughter, so silly, she loves this game, haha.”

Carys kept walking. She was leading them away from the French Market, into the Quarter, and Greta kept pace. They didn’t hear anything from Shelly again, so Greta relaxed, but Carys kept moving, squeezing her arm almost painfully tight. Then she turned onto a tiny side street, let go of Greta’s arm, and leaned against the brick, eyes closed. It was only then that Greta realized Carys was shaking.

“Hey, come here,” Greta said, reaching out to Carys.

Carys shook her head. “Sorry, not right now. I just need to be quiet for a minute.”

Greta took a step back. She was a little hurt, and she tried not to take it personally. Clearly, this wasn’t about her.

After a few minutes, Carys reached out a hand and squeezed Greta’s arm. “Thanks,” she said. “Wanna get some food?”

Greta nodded, and they settled in at a hightop table by the window of a Mexican restaurant nearby.

“So that’s your mom,” Greta said when they had their tacos and margaritas. She was shooting for casual so Carys could talk about it if she wanted, or not if she didn’t.

“Yeah. I haven’t seen her in two years. She almost never comes into town. She hates driving. Always talks someone into driving her anywhere she has to go.”

“You sounded… When you were talking to her, you didn’t sound like yourself.”

“You can’t have an actual conversation with my mom if you don’t wanna get sucked in. I don’t give her any information about me so she can’t use it against me. I don’t say anything about her because it all backfires. Even saying something that seems nice can get twisted. So you have to just be a rock—no info out, no energy in.”

“Are you feeling okay now?”

“Better, thanks.” Carys ate slowly. “It was just… I wasn’t expecting to see her, so I wasn’t prepared, and she…uh…she gets to me. Maybe she always will.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t know if I can explain it. It’s like, intellectually, I’m completely resigned to her always being like this, because I know that narcissists don’t change. But then there’s a part of me that searches for a change every time. Or hopes for one maybe.” Carys took a long sip of her margarita. “It’s not logical, but it’s like a tiny little part of my heart is hers, and no matter how long I go without seeing her, it wakes up when she’s around.” Carys made a face. “It’s like dessert stomach. Narcissistic mom heart. There’s always room.”