This Is Not Over Part 2

"I know, it sucks."

"He didn't even spell my name right."

"No one spells your name right."

She tilts her head slightly in acknowledgment. "True." Her hair gleams auburn in the sunlight. I've always thought Salina is way prettier than she-or the world-gives her credit for, but then, I tend to overestimate the attractiveness of people with perfect skin. It's celestial, that skin of hers.

"Sorry," a scrawny undergrad says, after he accidentally sideswipes me. I don't know what it is with twenty-year-olds, why they can't navigate around moving obstacles, i.e., people. He probably thinks the campus is a video game and he's lost his control paddle. Or whatever they use for video games. I wouldn't know. I'm a sentient being, inhabiting the actual world.

Miranda's making me irritable. It's my last semester. I have a ton to do, and a future to worry about. I don't have time for her bulls.h.i.+t.

Salina stops at the fountain, balancing one leg on its circular lip. It's turned off (budget cuts, most likely). She leans over and adjusts her complicated gladiator-style sandals. She's in a spaghetti-strap dress with no bra. "I just don't get it," she says.

"It could be your vibe." I'm trying to phrase it as delicately as I can.

"My vibe?" One eyebrow lifts, as if in warning.

"You want to be taken seriously, right?"

She looks horrified. "h.e.l.l, no!" She's twenty-four. Sometimes I feel that six-year gulf in our ages acutely. But it's not just age; it's lifestyle. She's out partying and hooking up; she shows up for cla.s.s in last night's eye makeup and an oversized hoodie belonging to a man whose name she may or may not remember, one who definitely can't spell hers.

My husband is a doctor.

Shut up, Miranda.

Salina and I sit down on the fountain and survey the campus. It's concrete, utilitarian, and aggressively geometric: circular fountain, square quad, rectangular buildings. No climbing ivy or hallowed halls at this state school branch. The only nod to aesthetics is this fountain, with its central bra.s.s mermaid holding a pile of books, water burbling out of her mouth like a b.l.o.w. .j.o.b gone wrong. It's surrounded by the campus's only expanse of lawn. Students are sunning themselves in the gra.s.s. There's a mix of youngest (straight from high school), young (transfers from other community colleges, like Salina), and older (returning students, like me). I could have gotten my degree online, but Rob said I should have the "full college experience." He loved Pepperdine. Yet this is a far cry from the cliffs of Malibu.

Salina sighs. "I just keep thinking, what's the point?"

"The point of what?"

"Of it all."

Pseudo-existential thoughts inspired by Tinder-was that what Rob meant about the college experience?

This is your chance to treat people well, because now that you know better, you cannot in good conscience leave your review up.

She's so myopic that she thinks the only good I can do is the good I can do for her. As if I'd actually call and hear her brandish her presumed superiority in real time.

There's no workable solution here, Miranda.

It occurs to me-and I allow myself a private smile at the thought-that I've gotten under her skin as much as she's gotten under mine. (My cyst has been throbbing intermittently throughout the day, pulsing like a beating heart.) Otherwise, she wouldn't have written again, asking me to reconsider.

So the rich can have their gated communities, but thanks to social media, thanks to Getaway.com, they can't be protected entirely from the proletariat. We can get at them.

"I've got to go in a few minutes," Salina says. "I'm late for the dermatologist."

"You go to a dermatologist?" I can't conceal my surprise. I thought skin like hers was born, not made.

"A cosmetic dermatologist. I get lasered." Her tone is matter-of-fact.

"What's your skin like when it's not lasered?"

"More like yours." That same matter-of-fact tone, but I feel myself blus.h.i.+ng. "You know, not too bad, but not like this." She gestures to her own visage.

I've stopped visiting dermatologists on my insurance plan. They all overdo or underdo; they prescribe oral antibiotics for life, or some stupid topical cream that does nothing. But cosmetic dermatologists and lasers-that sounds like heaven. "How much is it?" I ask.

"Five hundred dollars a treatment. It works best in a series of six. Then you get them every six months as maintenance. I'm in debt for about three grand but it's totally worth it."

I try in vain to find a single pore on her face. Just one. It can't be done. I practically moan with yearning. But $500 a treatment? A series of six, plus maintenance?

There's no way I can afford things like out-of-pocket dermatology, not when I'm in school and Rob's supporting me. Not when he's working with his dad at the store he'll someday inherit, but shouldn't. I've hinted that engraving is perched on the ledge of obsolescence. It is most definitely not a growth industry. You can't upsell. You can't get someone to buy two engraved watches, or silver platters, or whatever. He should be in sales. He could make a fortune, with his looks and personality.

But I don't get to push him, not when he's been so good to me, not when he's told me no, no, you can't get a part-time job, focus on your degree. I wanted to contribute to the household, maybe move into a nicer apartment, but Rob insisted. I've never felt so taken care of, not even when I was a kid, especially not then. My father was such a lousy provider, financially, emotionally, you name it, and my mother needed me to buffer her from his indifference and his affairs. She needed me to look after her. I never climbed into her bed when I was afraid or crying; she crawled into mine, seeking comfort. I never felt safe, or secure. The next eviction was always looming. Neither of my parents had really wanted a child, though you could argue that my mother made the best of it: she took what she could. Eventually, my dad joined her.

But Rob is a giver. He's the one who planned our first getaway, a surprise rental in Napa. It was a magical weekend, so much more than I thought I deserved, and I told him that we couldn't repeat it, we couldn't afford to. He must have seen how much I love a getaway, the chance to be someone else for a while, my future self, and he said as long as we only do it a few times a year, it's okay. He says I'm worth it. No one's ever thought so before.

With him paying for everything, I've gotten the best grades of my life. I work hard, because it's for both of us. Yet here I am, in my last semester, with no clear idea of a career. I'm afraid I'll let him down, that I'll prove to be a bad investment, and the fear completely overshadows any sense of pride or accomplishment.

Maybe I am having the true college experience, because I don't want it to end. I don't want to be thrust out into the real world.

"Rob wouldn't let you spend money on your face?" Salina asks. She's trying to sound sympathetic but I hear it: the implied judgment, the authorial voice. She likes Rob, because you can't help but like Rob, but she's been a little suspicious of him ever since I told her that he wanted me to take some time off right after college and get pregnant. He does make a compelling argument: If I have our kids first, then I won't be established yet in my career; I won't have to step away when I'm gaining some momentum. I could just start fresh when the kid is, say, two or three.

Salina called that "retrograde." She's got that amorphous Beyonce-flavored feminism ("Woman on top, b.i.t.c.hes!") that has no clear tenets. In my case, it neglects one crucial fact: At the rate I'm going, I could use another two or three years to figure out what I want to be when I grow up.

Yet somehow, my IUD is still firmly in place.

"I don't need Rob's permission," I say, "for anything." That's not how we work. "It just wouldn't be responsible, that's all. Three thousand dollars for my face, when he's the one working. When we might start trying to get pregnant soon."

"Responsible? That's about as s.e.xy as being taken seriously."

"Our s.e.x life is fine." At the look that crosses her face, I amend. "It's good. It's hot."

She doesn't try to contain her incredulity as she swings her bag over her shoulder. "I should get to my appointment. See you."

As she sashays off, I flash back to Miranda. I hear her accusing me of character a.s.sa.s.sination and exhorting me to be reasonable. Has anything truly great ever happened to a reasonable woman? I think not.

6.

Miranda

Dear Miranda, I've chosen not to call you because I didn't want to be condescended to live. It's bad enough by e-mail.

I'm standing by my review. The only amending I would do is to add an additional warning: Future guests should beware that if they put up an unbiased review, they'll be hounded by their former "host."

You still haven't given me a genuine apology, or attempted to address my grievance by any financial means (for example, a partial or full refund). It seems we're at an impa.s.se.

Dawn An impa.s.se that can be solved by a cash infusion, if I'm reading her correctly?

I underestimated this girl. This is a shakedown, pure and simple. I don't know why I didn't recognize it sooner. I suppose it's because I try to see the best in people, and I a.s.sume they do the same. Call it my Anne Frank streak. It's why it never occurred to me to take a picture of that stain.

I've been sitting in my car in front of the Santa Monica house for the past fifteen minutes, mulling and fuming. I need to calm down and weigh out my options. Anger is not among them.

I could report her to Getaway.com. Maybe I could get her review removed that way. They wouldn't want to sanction blackmail, after all. I'm a long-standing, valued member of their community. I've been posting my rental on their site practically since its inception.

But as I reread the e-mail, I see that it's brilliantly constructed, with built-in plausible deniability. There's no direct threat, no quid pro quo offered; it says right there that she's not going to change her review in my favor. "Miranda just inferred that she could buy me off," she could tell them. "I'm not for sale!"

See, brilliant.

Or I'm giving her entirely too much credit.

Let's say it's not a ransom note. Let's say she composed this in a minute flat, and it never crossed her mind that she was opening the door to a cash offer. Let's say she's innocent. I could give her the $200 back. I could say that she doesn't feel she did the damage and that I don't have photographic proof, so she can have her money and we'll call it even. All I ask is that she amend the review to show I'm an honest and reasonable person. Or better yet, delete it altogether.

It would be a draw. No, a win-win.

It's only $200. That's a good value, for losing that review. I still haven't had any inquiries since it's been up. It's not unheard of for me to go three days without a booking, but not even a single question? She's definitely hurting my business, and I can't afford a dry spell. I need continuous cash flow.

One could argue that if she accepts the money, I'm the winner. I'll have proven that she's not about protecting the unsuspecting community from a rapacious landlord but about avoiding responsibility.

I want to know that she knows that. I want her to cry uncle. My gut is telling me that there is nothing innocent about this girl.

As with terrorists, I can't let Dawn win, can't let her have the perception of winning. I'll accept only a complete and unconditional surrender: that review comes down before any payment is rendered.

She claims that I've shown myself to be untrustworthy-well, right back at her.

She's giving me a way out, I have to focus on that. This is good. I need to see this as good.

What if she turns down the $200, what if she tries for more?

Then I can report her to Getaway.com. They'll have to see her for what she is.

If she just turns me down, though, then she's won. She'll think she's exposed me, and that I was lying about the stain the whole time.

Why does it matter what she thinks? I don't know her, she doesn't know me.

Yet I've come to hate her.

That's crazy. I don't hate people. I was raised by parents who told me that hate is for people who can't find love, who can't locate their compa.s.sion. I believe that.

Give her the money, get rid of the review, and return to my life. It's a good life. I mean, look around. Look at this house.

I do, I look up at it. I don't hate people, and I love this house. Part of why I break the ordinance in order to rent it only for short stays is because I have a fantasy of moving in here, for a little while at least. A trial period, even. I've mentioned to Larry that it wouldn't be such a bad commute to the oncology center. But he says he would never be happy surrounded by what he calls, derisively, "the creative types."

I like the creative types. I like the pace. I like that people walk here. I like the beach and the pier. When I need to clear my brain, I still like to ride the Ferris wheel, just like I did when I was little, a controlled spiral out over that expanse of ocean.

I love this house not just because it's beautiful or close to the beach. I love it for what it meant to my father in his later years, how it transformed him, and my parents as a couple. My father was a workaholic, much like Larry, and in this house, he learned to relax. He became a Santa Monica man-with a favorite cafe where he'd read his newspaper, and a bicycle built for two that he'd ride with my mother along the path to Venice Beach, and the smoothies he'd make after long, meandering trips through the farmers' market, discovering combinations like star fruit and jicama. He and my mother had always been companionable, with few conflicts, but in Santa Monica, they rediscovered each other. They would touch casually, effortlessly, thoughtlessly. His hand on her back, a stray kiss on the cheek. They had this whole new tactile vocabulary, and you could tell they enjoyed speaking it. Those last five years of his life, of their lives together, were glorious.

I have a fantasy that the house will have the same effect on Larry, that he and I will someday experience the same renaissance as my parents. But he doesn't see what I see, not yet.

I wish I were a creative type myself, frankly. The closest I come to it is with the flowers that I arrange and bring into the house before each check-in. Dawn never commented on that, did she, on the explosion of lilies and snapdragons and one central rose in the foyer? No, of course not; I'm the condiment-withholding, deposit-stealing monster.

I pick up my latest bouquet and carry it toward the house. It's a two-bedroom white-s.h.i.+ngled Craftsman, with a white picket fence and a Meyer lemon tree in the front yard. There's a large deck with an ocean view. There's lots of light wood throughout-the floors, the kitchen island, and even the fireplace-creating an airy feeling that's not hippie-beachy but is summery all the same. The master bedroom and the living room both have ocean views, too. The sofas are sky blue, the furniture white, and the throw rugs white edged with blue. This house was where my parents found joy in what could aptly be called their golden years, and I can still feel it, like a friendly haunting.

Ordinarily, that is. Today, I'm looking around critically. I see the little scuffs on doorframes and the floor, the marks left by my short-term tenants. This is my home, and they troop through, these ingrates, and they evaluate. Mostly favorably, but there have been others over the years who needed to be told that their reviews were inaccurate and inappropriate, that if their vacation experience failed to match the beauty of this house, it's their fault, and not the home's. Dawn is the first person to refuse to take down her review. Perhaps she's not refusing at all, but inviting an opening bid.

If this were just about me, if it were only a matter of fewer shopping trips to Barneys, then I would ignore her altogether. But I have to think about Thad, same as I have every day for the past twenty-seven years. Once you're a mother, it's never just about you.

I fill a vase with water at the kitchen sink. Sunlight pours in through the large window, and between the beautiful purple flowers of the jacaranda, I can see the ocean just fine, thank you.

7.

Dawn

We can agree to disagree. Remove your review, and I'll refund your $200.

I'm surprised that Miranda is texting. I'd a.s.sumed she was one of those old people who used e-mail exclusively. So she does have my correct phone number after all. That means that I should have received the voicemail she supposedly left.

Liar.

What about pain and suffering? I text back.

One laser treatment and I can probably let all of this go. No matter what Miranda thinks, I am reasonable. And self-interested, like everyone else. The community will have to fend for itself. Besides, I'm sure that Miranda has learned her lesson, and she won't mess with people's security deposits without photographic evidence again.

I know that one laser treatment isn't ideal, but it's something. It's a start.