Chapter 34
Chapter
There’s nothing left on the list to try. I don’t know what else to do for Mom now. And things with Greg get weirder every time we hang out. He’s not good enough for you loops in my head, and I resolve to avoid him for a while.
It’s Sunday afternoon, and I’m lying on the couch, staring at the wall and moping when Tita Wendy stops by.
She slips off her shoes—sneakers a streetwear blog would envy—and breezes through the house to the kitchen, Tupperware in hand.
I can see she’s made laing, another one of my favorites: taro leaves and pork in a thick sauce of spicy coconut milk.
Even better as leftovers, because all the flavors have had time to mingle.
Guilt creeps over me like a rash as she finds a place for it in the fridge. I should learn to cook so I can bring her food sometime. I’ll add it to the to-do list, once I figure out how to free Mom from Slack.
“How’ve you been, Roobs?” Tita Wendy asks when I join her in the kitchen.
“Oh, I’m okay!” I sigh, wavering about whether to burden her with this. “I just…don’t know what else to do.”
Tita Wendy gives me a sympathetic look and rubs her palms up and down my arms. “Think about it some more. I’m sure it will come to you.”
I shake my head, and she pats my arms gently, clicking her tongue. “I’m so glad you and Greg made up,” she adds. “He was getting insufferable.”
She collects her purse from the kitchen table, where she’d dropped it, like she’s about to head out.
“Tita Wendy, you really don’t have to keep making me food!” I add in a rush. “It means so much to me, but I don’t want to make extra work for you.”
Her mouth forms a surprised little O. “But I’m not—”
“I know, I know, you just made too much.”
“No no, uh—Greg asked me not to tell you, but…” Her mouth curls into a knowing smile, and she raises a hand as if to deflect incoming objections. “A mother reserves the right to make a judgment call.”
“He asked you not to tell me…?”
“Greg made this,” she says with a casual flick of her hand toward the fridge. She laughs. “I haven’t really cooked in years!”
The floor of the kitchen spins, and I brace myself on the counter, trying to seem normal.
“He got interested in it a few years back, when he was going through a rough period. Heartbreak, I think? Some kind of girl trouble—not that he talks to me about it!” Tita Wendy smiles like it’s really a funny story.
“He needed a hobby. And he seems embarrassed about it for some reason—who knows why.” She shakes her head, and the wistful look on her face says, That boy is hopeless.
“But it works out for me, anyway. I love not having to come up with dinner every night.”
So every time one of them brought me food…Greg actually made it? This information is too much to process. It’s like my body can’t absorb the idea of him caring for me like that.
“Anyway, I’ve got to run.” She gives me a quick kiss on either cheek. “But we’re nearby in case you need anything.”
I need to lie down, and after the door closes behind her, I slump back onto the couch.
Greg’s been feeding me for months, and he didn’t even want me to thank him. An aching mix of guilt and gratitude sticks in my chest.
I grab my phone and start writing him a text: hey thank you so much—
But then I delete it, because he didn’t want his mom to say anything, and I don’t want to make things weird for them.
Instead I put on some rice, lie back down to stare at the ceiling while it cooks, and heat up the laing once it’s almost ready.
I take some photos of the steaming plate in front of me, searching for the best angle, and send one to Greg with the message: sooo good!
And just in case it makes him uncomfortable, I add: your mom really is the best cook.