“Gee, what a surprise,” she drawls. “Is he hot?”
I take my car out of gear, hit the button for the brake, and when her words register in my mind, I frown. “Huh?”
“Your not-a-date,” she clarifies. “Is he hot?”
“Um…” I pick up my phone again, take the call off speaker, and place the device to my ear. Then, looking over my shoulder, I watch as Jason pulls in beside me and cuts the engine. “That’s a hard question to answer.”
“So he is?”
“No! It’s not… he’s not ugly. In the traditional sense, he’s very handsome – tall, dark, charming. But I’m not, like, sexually attracted to him.”
“Take a picture and text it to me.”
“Absolutely not!” I snatch up my keys and bag, then push my door open, but the wind fights me and tries to shove it back. “I have to go, Mom. But you know where I am, with whom, and if I don’t survive tonight, you’ll know why.”
I swallow when Jason comes around to my side of the car, and when he looks at my phone by my ear – smiling, like he heard everything I just said – he only takes my arm and chuckles.
“Love you, Mom.”
“Love you too, sweetie. Stay safe, have fun, and don’t accept any drinks from anyone but the bartender.”
“Thank you, Mother.” I pull my phone away from my ear, end the call, and slide the phone into my bag with a snicker. “My mom,” I explain. “She’s a little crazy.”
“Yeah?”
Jason leads me toward the restaurant door, then inside. The second the door closes at our backs, the roaring wind is shut out, and in its place are the sounds and scents of a good restaurant: garlic, herbs, pastas and pizzas, and the soft clinking of silverware on plates, the glimmer of candlelight on wine glasses.
As we step up to the hostess desk, I hurriedly fix what I’m certain is Medusa-style hair from that raging wind.
“A table for two?” Jason asks the hostess with his charming smile.
“No candles,” I add, and grit my teeth when the hostess and Jason both look at me. I shrug. “Just keeping it professional.”
Jason chuckles, seemingly unoffended, and looks back to the hostess. “No candlelight, no sharing of desserts, and no corner table hidden away for privacy.”
“Perfect.” My stomach unclenches just a little bit more.
I’ll give Jason an hour, I’ll eat a nice meal, have a glass of wine, wait for Luke’s text to say he’s done for the day, and then I’ll go home and spend the night with the man I want to spend it with, curled up under a blanket, eating something sinful, and letting Luke do sinful things to my body.
Because why the hell not?
“This way.” Grabbing a couple menus from her little podium desk, the hostess leads us to a table in the middle of the restaurant – in full view of everyone in here, and anyone outside who cared to look through the windows.
A candle stands in the middle of the table, glowing and casting soft light over the white tablecloth, but without missing a single beat, the hostess pinches the flame out with her bare fingers, places the candle on the next table, then sets the menus down and smiles as Jason steps up behind me to help me with my chair.
“I’ve got it.” I smile for him and try to lessen the blow, but I fix my own chair, I push myself in. I don’t need a man for that, and if I’m letting anyone do it, it’s my boyfriend, who might be inclined to bite my neck while he’s going.
“Of course.” Jason raises both hands in surrender and comes around to his chair.
I order a glass of wine – one single glass of house white – and Jason does the same, but red, and then the hostess leaves, and the only sound coming from our table is the incessant buzzing from my phone.
“I’m sorry.” I grab the device and snort at my dozen texts. “It’s Mom.”
Where are you?
Are you okay?
Does the basement smell of mold?
Worse, does it smell of bleach? Because that means he cleans away the stench of death.
“She’s funny, huh?” Jason watches me with a kind smile as I hurriedly reply my whereabouts and general safety.
I hit send, set the phone face-down on the table, and cross my legs to get comfortable. “She’s my best friend,” I answer. “She’s like an annoying little sister who thinks I’m always ready to party, and that I’m rich and can waste money on frivolities, and she also has a penchant for exotic underwear.”
Jason’s cheeks warm as he leans forward. “Wait, are we still speaking about your mom?”
“Yeah.” I glance up and accept the glass of wine the hostess sets before me. “Thank you. And yes,” I repeat for Jason. “My mom is a loose cannon. She’s silly and flirty, and daring and wild. Who she is as a woman, who she is as a mom, and who she is at work, are three entirely different women. And don’t even get me started on who she is behind the wheel in bad traffic. Her inner demon comes out in those moments.”
“She sounds like a lot of fun.” He sits back, relaxed and comfortable, and picks up his glass of wine. “Fun childhood?”
“The best. My mom was young when she had me… like, really young. So I still have memories of being four or five, my mom still not legally allowed to drink, and so when people typically her age were out partying on the weekends or whatever, she and I would go nuts on milkshakes and music. We’d dance around our shitty living room, and Mom was so crazy that she’d never get mad about milk being spilled on the carpet.”
“No?” Jason seems to relax into his chair. His chest is broad, his shoulders wide, and when he folds his arms, his biceps fire up and stretch the button-up shirt he must’ve worn to work today. “Something tells me you got mad about the spilled milk.”
“Yeah, well.” I laugh. “One of us had to be serious.” I bring a hand up and circle the rim of my wineglass with the tip of my finger. “Mom says I was born with an old soul. ‘Four going on eighty,’ she’d say. I was the one enforcing bedtime routines, I was the one demanding we read before bed, because if she was left to her own devices, she’d stay up half the night watching murder documentaries or presidential debates.”
He snorts. “Not at all weird.”
“Right. Mom’s a night owl, a partier, but because she got pregnant so young and never truly got to experience that life, she was, like… I don’t know…” I take a moment and consider. “Well, a partier on mute. The music and craziness was flowing through her veins, but she was a mom, she had responsibilities, so she had to shut it all down and ignore the freedoms she so wanted to pursue.” I stop, and smile when I think of my childhood. “Friday night dance parties in the living room were her way of dancing away the sillies, and experiencing the crazy she needed.”
“And during the week?” he asks.
“She was grinding, working, studying, momming. She did what she had to do so we could survive, and she did an amazing job.” My heart throbs so I feel it on the outside of my chest. “And I realized just now that I was such a drag at those dance parties. I was more concerned about messes and keeping the music to a respectable volume so we didn’t disturb the neighbors.” I look up and meet his eyes. “She worked so hard during the week, and when she was able to take a minute to breathe, I was the annoying nag who constantly told her to keep the noise down.” I grit my teeth and reach out for my phone. “I should apologize.”