Chapter 11
CHAPTER 11
Could it be? Raffo gazed into her empty glass, as though the answer lay at the bottom of it. Was Connor’s mother flirting with her? Even if she was—and it was a big if because Raffo could immediately think of about five arguments against it—Raffo wasn’t open to flirting right now. Especially not with her best friend’s mom. Not in a million years would Raffo even entertain the notion, although—admittedly—she might well have started it. It was all well and good to tell Dylan, as she had, that she wasn’t trying anything on with her, but did that stand if her actions contradicted her words? If she spent the morning painting a topless picture of Dylan—and enjoying the hell out of it?
These things were so easily misconstrued and Dylan could be feeling vulnerable in a way that made her extra sensitive to the attention of another woman. She clearly admired Raffo as a painter, there was no mistaking that.
Granted, Raffo had been riding the high of her startling painting flow so hard, that she might have failed to pick up on some things. And she wasn’t clueless enough that she couldn’t see there was some chemistry between them. That they enjoyed each other’s company in this dreamy location away from everything and everyone. A situation like this was the perfect breeding ground for heightened emotions, for feeling something inadvertent for another person that you wouldn’t even consider in normal-life circumstances. Three days ago, they’d both been in crisis. To her surprise—and delight—Raffo was feeling so much better already, and she didn’t know if it was just the surroundings, or the woman she’d been spending time with—and who took such great care of her—or a special combination of the two, but for Dylan nothing much had changed. Except for Raffo’s arrival.
There were so many reasonable explanations for a touch of flirting over a glass of champagne. For coming out as bisexual—because, why not? Raffo had done her utmost to keep a poker face, to not give away her secret glee at what Dylan was saying about herself, because a reaction might have… Raffo didn’t really know. Nor did she know what to do about this situation—this possible flirting vibe between them—so she decided to do nothing.
Moreover, it would be preposterous to assume that Dylan was flirting with her simply because she was bisexual. What was quite possible, however, was that Dylan flirted with her because Raffo had, on more than one occasion, expressed her appreciation for Dylan’s physical appearance as well as her kind nature.
But none of that mattered, because not only was Dylan Connor’s mother—and Raffo would never come between her best friend and his mother like that—but a fling was the last thing Raffo was looking for. Thoughts of Mia might have dimmed, pushed into the shadows of her mind after she’d started painting again, but Raffo’s heart was still broken into too many pieces. All she wanted was a good, long break from women altogether, and to paint. That’s why she’d come here, after all. Instead, she was living with an extremely easy on the eye middle-aged bisexual woman going through, Raffo guessed, something like a midlife crisis.
As soon as they sat down for dinner, Raffo would change the subject. With her history, she had plenty of other things to talk about that could not be misinterpreted and firmly closed the door to any flirting.
“Hot damn,” Raffo said. “This is incredible.”
“It’s just a salad.” Dylan’s modest deflection belied the dish before them—tender roasted bell peppers that melted on the tongue, a dressing perfectly balanced between tart and sweet that Raffo could drink by the cupful.
“Do you want to know why I hate cooking so much?” It was high time for a swift gear change.
“I’d love to.” Dylan refilled their water glasses—a wise switch from the earlier champagne.
“I don’t know what Con has told you about me, but, um, my mom died when I was thirteen. Ovarian cancer.”
“I’m so sorry.” Dylan put down her cutlery.
“Yeah.” Raffo had missed her mother every single day of the almost twenty years she’d been gone. “So, it was just me and my dad and my three brothers. Guess who had to do all the cooking at home from then onwards?”
“Oh, god.” Dylan slanted her head.
“You will never meet a more staunch defender of the patriarchy than my father,” Raffo said. “I was the only female left in the house, so I would do the cooking—and the cleaning, for that matter.” She paused to take a quick sip of water. “I cooked when my mom was ill as well, but that was different. I did it for her. She’d taught me how to cook a few dishes by then and I did it to help her, but… after she died.” Raffo shook her head. “I was so angry. All the Shahs are stubborn assholes, me included, and, well, there was a lot of fighting, which was, in the end, more an expression of our grief than anything else.”
“Oh, Raffo. I’m so sorry that happened to you.”
“I ran away from home when I just turned fifteen.”
Dylan did a visible double take. This information was not part of Raffo’s carefully curated artist biography, but she’d assumed Connor might have told his mother some things about her past. Either he hadn’t, which Raffo appreciated, or Dylan had an excellent poker face.
“Where did you go?” Dylan asked.
“The Rainbow Shelter. I’d read about it online and it seemed like my only option at the time.”
“The Rainbow Shelter? Why does that name ring such a bell?” Dylan knotted her shapely eyebrows together.
“They made a movie about it. About its founder, Justine Blackburn. Gimme Shelter . Did you see it?”
Dylan shook her head. “No, but I’ve heard about it.”
“It’s pretty safe to say Justine Blackburn saved my life.” Raffo could give her all the paintings she wanted, but she’d never be able to repay Justine for what she’d done for her. But Justine was not the kind of person who needed—let alone accepted—payment for any of her actions. That’s not why she did what she did.
“Jesus, Raffo. I’m stumped for words. I’m sorry about your mother dying so young and… your family not…”
“Being better?”
Dylan nodded. “What about your brothers? Didn’t they help you?”
“No. Not really. They weren’t allowed to. My dad… he went nuts after my mom died. He couldn’t cope. He just could not cope.”
“Is he still alive?” Dylan asked.
“Oh, yeah. He found himself a new wife-slash-servant, but we’re not really in touch. He doesn’t approve of my ‘lifestyle’ and that pertains to both my choice of partner and what I do for a living.”
“And your brothers?”
“They come to my openings sometimes, but it’s all very… businesslike. We haven’t been able to mend things between us. As a family, we didn’t heal after my mom died. It just wasn’t in the cards for us. It all just went to shit.” Even though it had happened so long ago, Raffo had to swallow a lump out of her throat. “My youngest brother, Rishi… A sister knows—I just know he’s gay, but he’s married to a woman and has two kids.” Raffo expelled a deep sigh. “I’ve always known, but now he’s just another self-loathing homophobe. It’s so sad.”
How was that for not flirting? Dylan hadn’t touched the delicious salad she’d made since Raffo had started talking—neither had Raffo.
“Jesus,” Dylan muttered.
“I’m sorry for, um, bringing down the mood like that. I didn’t mean to. I just wanted to explain…” Raffo took hold of her fork, more as a statement than anything else. “I’m fine now. Well, except for my girlfriend dumping me, but the rest of it all happened nearly twenty years ago.”
“You’re so strong.” Dylan leaned back in her chair. “I’m in complete awe of you.”
“Don’t be. My life is like so many other people’s. Ups and downs. Good things and bad things.”
“No.” Dylan shook her head vehemently. “You were thirteen, Raffo. And no one was there for you. That’s not okay.”
Raffo waved off Dylan’s comment with her fork. “My mom made me promise her, on her deathbed, that I’d go to college. That I’d work hard in high school so I could get a degree. I would have left home earlier if I hadn’t made her that promise, but I soon learned that I didn’t have time to do my homework if I stayed. So I left before finishing high school. Justine made sure I got my diploma when I was at the shelter, but I never went to college. I broke that promise to my mother.”
Dylan dabbed at her eye. “Any mother would be immensely proud of you.”
Raffo would never know—could never know—but she still felt, in her heart, that her mother would be proud of the work she did, despite her not going to college, and not becoming an engineer like Rishi, or a doctor, like her two older brothers.
“Thanks for saying that. I appreciate it.” Another gear change—and a mood shift—was in order. “Just like I appreciate the hell out of this salad. Good thing it can’t get cold.”
“Forget the salad.” Dylan looked at her, her eyes all moist and soft. “I just really want to give you a hug, unless you think that’s inappropriate.”
Raffo could do with a hug right about now. If only for all the motherly hugs she’d gone without since the tender age of thirteen. Because that’s what this hug would be—motherly.
“Okay.” She stood, closing the distance between them. Dylan’s arms enveloped her, and Raffo allowed herself to soften, her own arms finding Dylan’s waist. The embrace was kind and lovely and warm—just like Dylan—and exactly what the moment called for. Though part of her wanted to linger in that comfort, Raffo pulled back after a few seconds.
“I don’t want pity,” she said. “I just wanted you to understand why I hate cooking—where that deep dislike comes from.” She offered Dylan a soft smile. “Now let’s eat this gorgeous salad you made. It’s the least I can do.”