The walk home feels good, and I realize that the Avalon version of me would have done that every day of college, then taken this walk back to the cottage. What a fun, quaint routine that would have been. A lot better than declining coke in the bathroom at every bar in WeHo for the first few years of my independence. College in Florida hadn’t felt like independence since it was so close to home. It would have been nice to be here, in such an insulated place, while still taking such a big gamble on myself.

I get back to the cottage and put together a plate of cheese and crackers, then go through the house, familiarizing myself, with Maureen trailing loyally at my heel. I listen to Father John Misty on the Bluetooth speaker I found in the bedroom and wonder how I ever forgot how much I loved the feeling of being onstage.

While I’m snooping through my own life, Maureen suddenly howls and starts to bark her low, sweet bark.

There’s a knock on the door, and I open it.

It’s Kiera, like I expected, as it’s after seven. But she looks sheepish when I open the door.

“What happened?” I ask.

“I think I fucked up.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

“What did you do?” I ask, allowing her to come in.

“I told Mammy.”

It’s funny to me that the Irish use the names mammy and daddy so much more commonly than Americans use the equivalent mommy and daddy in adulthood. It would have been nice if I’d done that, rather than the exceedingly self-conscious transition I put us all through when I turned sixteen. My daily use of Mommy shifted to the sober syllable Mom; Daddy became Dad. And they both teased me mercilessly about it, each of them still signing cards and things with their original names.

“Told your— Told her about what, me? About my…” I twirl my finger at my temple and she nods. “Why?”

“I dunno!” she says, tossing down her hoodie. Everyone here seems to travel with an extra layer, and even in the last few days I’ve started to see why. The chill sets in. “She was plyin’ me with French onion soup. She goes through these cooking phases,” she adds as explanation. “She’s on soups now.”

“That’s fun.”

“And she’s getting proper good, too. Anyway. I was there, having a chat, and I cannot overstate how good this soup was. It was the right amount of cheese and onions and had such a depth—”

I do a hurry up gesture, needing to know quite how serious this is. I can’t see why it matters that she told her mom, but I assume it’s bad.