“Cool. Thanks.”
“You’re just full of surprises, Vander.” I mean it as a compliment.
He shrugs, like he’s not one of the most resilient people I’ve ever encountered. “I actually like cooking,” he says, staring into space while I eat. “I find it therapeutic.”
“I’m the same,” I admit before taking a drink of my water. “If I’ve had a bad day or I’m stressed about something, you will always find me in the kitchen cooking up a storm.”
“I cook for my mom too,” he adds, and we continue talking in between eating. “If I didn’t feed her, she’d waste away.”
I almost lose my appetite at his words. “You’re a good son, Vander,” I quietly admit.
“It’s still not enough.”
I rest my hand on top of his, needing to offer him comfort. His eyes meet mine. “You’re more than enough.” We smile at one another, and I remove my hand before my fingers get ideas.
“Speaking of food, what are you doing for Thanksgiving?” It’s only five days away, and I doubt his mother has organized anything.
“It’ll just be Mom and me. Dad is spending it in the city.” A dark look crosses his face, but he doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t need to. “I’m going to cook.”
“You should come to our house. Both of you. There will be more than enough food.” It’s a spontaneous offer, but I can’t regret it even if it will make the day more torturous for me. Pretending to play the happy couple with Curtis in front of the kids and his parents will be horrendous. Having Vander there will only add to my misery, but in another way, his presence will soothe me. And I can’t bear to think of him all alone, rattling around that big house with his semi-comatose mother.
“I don’t know.” He scrubs a hand along his prickly jawline.
I know why he hesitates. “There will be no judgment in my home. Besides, your mom knows how to conduct herself in public.” It’s another reason I despise Diana Henley, but a part of me feels for her too. She can turn the charm on in public and appear like a functioning human when the need arises. Yet, she can’t do that for her son. At home, she lets him see the true extent of her addiction. Forces him to care for her, and I have zero respect for her because of it.
Curtis will probably hate I invited her, but oh well.
“I will ask her. She’ll probably say no.”
I won’t ask him to ditch his mother on Thanksgiving, so I only say, “Just let me know either way.”
We chat about less stressful things as we finish dinner, and I help him to clean up. Then we sit on opposite ends of the couch, listening to more of Halsey’s new album, in between talking, as I sip a glass of crisp Sancerre while Vander drinks a beer. “Are you still attending your philosophy class on Monday nights?” he asks, swiping my empty glass and getting up to refill it.
“Yes. It’s the highlight of my week.” Vander returns, swinging his legs up onto the couch. I follow suit, tucking my legs underneath me and covering my knees with my dress to ensure I’m not flashing anything I shouldn’t be.
“What’s the hot topic this time?” he inquires, handing me a fresh glass of wine. Our fingers brush in the exchange, but I forcibly ignore the tingles shooting up my arm.
“Um…reincarnation.” My cheeks heat as I stumble over the word. Ever since Dee said the things she said, I have been struggling to wrap my head around it. It’s one thing being open-minded and believing in the abstract and quite another when it potentially becomes a reality. Truthfully? I don’t know what to think.
His eyes light up. “Interesting subject. What’s your view on it?” It almost appears like he’s holding his breath while he waits for me to reply.
I bite down on my lip as I contemplate my response. “What’s yours?”
“Answering a question with a question. Hmm.” He toys with his lips, and my eyes are like heat-seeking missiles latching on to a target as I watch him pluck his plump lips with long, lean fingers. “Classic deflection maneuver there.” His lips curl up at the corners in a teasing manner.
He’s not wrong, but I’m rethinking everything right now, so I go for another tried-and-tested deflection technique. “Most Buddhists believe in reincarnation, and a report we looked at in class said one in four Americans believe reincarnation exists.”
“I find that fascinating, but I’m interested in what you think.” Gawd, he’s like a dog with a bone. He stretches his legs out, and his bare toes brush against my dress-covered knees because his legs are just that long. “Sorry.” He pulls himself upright against the armrest so his feet aren’t touching me anymore.
“There is enough anecdotal evidence to suggest it’s real,” I truthfully admit. “I’m with John Locke and similar mindsets. I believe personal identity is tied to having the same consciousness, we retain the memories from consciousness to consciousness, and it’s nothing to do with the body we occupy.”
He bobs his head. “It’s the soul that is reincarnated, not the physical body. Though I have read some of the teachings of Lamaistic belief and it makes a compelling case for reincarnation of the body.”
“We discussed the Dalai Lama too. Each Dalai Lama believes their spirit is reincarnated in the body of their successor and that person is born at the moment of his death. It’s interesting, but how is it compelling?” I’m on a high in this moment, thrilled I can have these kinds of conversations with him, knowing he’s not just paying me lip service when he says he shares my passion for philosophy. He reads and studies it too. How many eighteen-year-olds do that?
“They take precautions to ensure the holy succession, and there have been witness reports going back for hundreds of years that attest to things that can only be explained by reincarnation.”
“Like what?” I sit up closer and lean toward him, taking a mouthful of my wine as I eagerly wait for him to answer. We only started this subject at the end of class last week, so this is new to me, and perhaps it’s something I can raise at our next session.
“Like there was a rainbow over the house where the baby was born. His birth was indicated in a vision. The child could tell holy visitors’ identities even when they tried to disguise it. Some recognized previous belongings like rosary beads, and others were readily able to repeat the Buddhist mantra. All of this while only a young child. That can’t be faked. How do you—”
The front door handle rattles, violently, unexpectedly, cutting Vander off mid-sentence. My eyes pop wide in alarm, and my heart lurches to my throat. Anxiety prickles the back of my neck, and acid churns in my gut. Fists pound on the door. “Van! Open up!” West shouts, his impatient raps growing more insistent.
“Shit.” Vander curses under his breath while I go into full-on-panic mode. My son cannot find me here! How the hell would I ever explain it?
Vander jumps up, grabbing my glass of wine, my shoes, my coat, and my purse. His eyes dart around the room. “Give me a sec,” he roars while taking my elbow and yanking me up from the couch. “Hide in the bedroom,” he whispers, guiding me toward the room at the back with urgency.