Lone Star by Paullina Simons

doesn’t.”
    â€œI think it because it’s true,” Chloe said. “It has stunning architecture. Art. History. Culture.”
    â€œYou think we don’t have architecture?” Jimmy bellowed.
    â€œHouses are not the same as architecture, Dad!”
    â€œDon’t yell! Since when do you care about architecture? It’s the first time in my life I’ve heard you use that word. Now you want to go halfway around the globe to learn more about house design?”
    Chloe found it difficult to speak through a clenched mouth. “Art. Culture. History.”
    â€œSo go visit Boston,” Lang said, pushing away from the table. “There’s a big city for you. It has Art. Culture. History. It has architecture .”
    â€œMaine has history, too.” Jimmy tried not to sound defensive about his beloved and beautiful home state. “What about the Red Paint People?”
    â€œDad, okay, history is not why I want to go to Europe.”
    â€œIf not for history, what for, then?”
    Brief inhale to traverse the unbridgeable chasm between parents and children.
    Perhaps not so unbridgeable.
    â€œI bet it’s to lie on the beach all day,” said Lang.
    â€œAnd what’s wrong with the beach?”
    â€œYou can lie on a beach in Maine!” Jimmy said.
    â€œChloe! Look what you did. You’ve upset your father. Jimmy, shh.” Walking over, Lang put a quieting hand on her husband.
    Taking hold of Lang’s hand, Jimmy continued. “What about York Beach?” he said. They both stood a few feet away from Chloe, near the sink, united in their flummoxed anxiety for their only child. Chloe continued to sit and stare into her cold, half-eaten chop. “We’ve got five hundred miles of spectacular sandy coastline. How many miles does Barcelona have?”
    â€œIs it warm?” said Chloe. “Is it beachy? Is it Mediterranean?”
    â€œDo you see?” Lang said. “She doesn’t even know where Barcelona is. It’s on the Balearic Sea, for your information.”
    Chloe couldn’t help herself. She groaned. Clearly, in between grilling swine and grilling her daughter, Lang had opened an encyclopedia and was now using some arcane knowledge to . . . Chloe didn’t know what. “Mom,” Chloesaid, so slowly it came out as mommmmmmmmm . A raw grunt left her throat. “The Balearic Sea is part of the Mediterranean. Look it up on a map. Don’t do this.”
    Undeterred, her mother continued. “They didn’t even have any beaches fifteen years ago. They built them for the Olympic Games. That’s your history right there. Don’t pretend you’re all about the Barcelona sand. Maine has had beaches for five hundred years.”
    Chloe blinked at her mother. Lang blinked back defiantly. “Mom, so what? What does that have to do with anything? What does that have to do with me going or not going?”
    â€œSo if it’s not for the beach or for history, why do you want to go? Do you want to prove something?”
    â€œI don’t want to prove anything,” Chloe said through closed teeth. “I. Just. Want. To. Go. It’s Barcelona! You want to know why Barcelona and not Rome or Athens or some other place? Okay, I’ll tell you. Because while you were gallivanting through the glens of Kilkenny and I stayed with Hannah and her mom, Blake bought me a magazine.”
    â€œOh, well, if Blake bought you a magazine . . .”
    â€œA National Geographic, ” Chloe continued through the sarcasm. “It had an article about Barcelona. It sounded nice. So Hannah and I said to each other we’d go when we graduated.” She wanted to scream. “We fell in love with it when we were kids.” I fell in love with it, she wanted to say. “We thought it would be fun to go when we grew up. And here we are. All grown-up. Her mother is letting her go. Her mother is treating her like an