The Breakup Doctor by Phoebe Fox Page A

groaned as he picked her up higher and hurled her into the deep end.
    â€œStu!” My mother suddenly stood at the sliding glass doors like a Valkyrie. “You apologize to Sasha! And stop sloshing water over the edges—you know I hate that.”
    â€œSorry, Sash.”
    â€œSorry, Mrs. Ogden,” put in my brown-nosing best friend.
    And just that quickly we were all collectively twelve years old again.

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    After twenty minutes or so of our loud horseplay, my dad excused himself to his garage workshop to get back to his latest project—rebuilding the cabinetry he had ripped down in the kitchen, leaving a series of gaping maws lining its walls. Mom had disappeared after her last admonition from the sliders, and after a while I decided to go in and see if she needed help with dinner.
    As I came into the ravaged kitchen my dad had been renovating for months, I found Mom standing at the makeshift plywood counter, rolling the last of a slaughterhouse’s worth of lunch meat into a spiral and adding it to a platter already heaped with mountains of cubed cheese, cut-up carrots and radishes and broccoli, and an array of olives.
    I carefully shut the slider behind me. “Geez, Mom, you go rob a tailgate party?”
    She looked up at me, her eyebrows furrowing. “What? We’re having casual dinner tonight.”
    â€œNo, no, this looks great.” I reached for a jar of pickles and started forking them onto the platter.
    â€œHow’s that house of yours—have you gotten any work done on it?” she asked.
    I was gratified for once to have the right answer: “Sasha came over a couple weeks ago and we peeled off the old paper in the dining room. I’m going to patch the walls and get it painted.”
    Mom’s face brightened and she gave me a pleased smile that warmed me despite myself. “That Sasha! She’s a good friend.”
    â€œThe best,” I said honestly.
    Mom sighed as she rolled another piece of prosciutto into a neat, tight cylinder. “I wish that girl could find someone who appreciated her. Like your Kendall.”
    It took me a moment to realize that Mom wasn’t suggesting I pass Kendall along to Sasha as more deserving of him. I wanted to blurt out that he had asked me to move in with him, that our relationship was getting serious, that the man she was talking about in such glowing terms had picked me .
    But, “I don’t think Kendall’s her type,” was all I said. “Too...traditional.” By which I meant he didn’t ride a motorcycle or own an arsenal of firearms or work in a job that started at ten p.m. and didn’t finish until dawn. Sasha liked them edgy.
    My column was the proverbial elephant in the room. I hadn’t heard a word from my mother about it. I knew better than to ask, but some masochistic inner voice took control of my tongue.
    â€œSo,” I said. “Did you read my article?”
    My mom didn’t look at me. “I did. After your father told me about it.”
    I heard the subtext: I should have told her myself. And probably she was right, but I’d long since stopped running to my mom for the approval I already knew wasn’t coming.
    And yet... “What did you think?”
    She concentrated on the meat she was rolling, reaching for two more slices before speaking into the silence that had already told me the answer. “I just... I hate to see you publicize what happened to you.”
    â€œThat’s not what the column is about,” I said tightly.
    â€œIsn’t it?”
    I set the pickle jar back down on the plywood, the fork clattering beside it. “I’m going to get us some sodas.”
    â€œDon’t be angry—I’m just worried about you. I don’t want you to be defined by what that awful Michael did to you.”
    My chest grew tight, the way it always did at the simple mention of his name. Still. “Mom,