Chapter 19
September 17, 2024
Waking up in Milo’s childhood bedroom is a weird type of déjà vu. I’ve never been here before, of course, but something about it feels so familiar. I take in the buttery-yellow hue of the walls, the wooden desk, the Star Wars poster near the armoire, the worn hardwood floors, the tiny window shrouded in white linen curtains that are so light and threadbare, they’re practically see-through.
Maybe I’ve seen a room like this in a photo of a similar vacation rental. Maybe he showed me a photo of it once.
Or maybe it’s because I’m living life backward—technically that means I’ve been in this room already, even if I don’t remember it.
I shake my head at myself right as Milo starts to stir next to me. I glance over my shoulder and see him blink awake before yawning. He scratches his hand across his bare chest.
“Still not weirded out staying in the bedroom I grew up in?” he asks, his voice low and gravelly.
I roll over to face him. “Not at all.”
I press a kiss to his mouth. Before long things are getting heated and handsy. I wonder how in the hell I ever let something like the fear of bad breath stop me from experiencing the hottest way to wake up in the morning.
When I start to slide my hand down his boxers, he stops me with a hand on my wrist. “We probably shouldn’t.” He groans like he doesn’t want to stop, even though he’s the one choosing this. “My mom is an early riser and ...”
On the other side of the bedroom door, I hear the sound of footsteps, then dishes clanking.
I make a face. “Okay, yeah, I definitely can’t fool around with your mom just a few feet away. That’s just ...” I make a quiet gagging noise before shoving a pillow over my face.
Milo chuckles before ripping away the pillow. “Come on. You know she’s dying to cook us breakfast.”
We hop out of bed, get dressed, and slip to the bathroom next door to Milo’s room. When we emerge from the hallway into the kitchen, my eyes nearly pop out of my head. Milo’s mom is a stone-cold stunner. She could be the stand-in for Monica Bellucci. She’s all height, long limbs, and curves. And Christ, how old was she when she had him? A teenager?
I try my best to rein it in and follow Milo’s lead. He pads to the kitchen and presses a kiss to her cheek before taking the basket of berries from her hand and washing them in the sink. She beams widely at me and pulls me into a hug.
She looks at me and smiles. “ Querida , how’d you sleep? Good?”
I need a second to process the fact that she’s talking to me. There’s a fluttering sensation in my stomach at how natural that term of endearment sounds when she speaks. Like she’s said it a million times. It feels just as amazing as the first time she called me that when we spoke on the phone.
I nod and try not to gawk at her. “Yes, thank you. Um, can I help with—”
She frowns and shakes her head, her cascade of long, thick ebony hair swooshing with movement. “No need. My Milo’s got it. I’ve trained him well, no?”
He winks at us before dumping the berries in a bowl and putting on the coffeepot and teakettle. Daniela motions for me to take a seat at the small table in their kitchen while she fetches some cheese and cured meats from the fridge.
“Good to see all our years in America didn’t spoil you,” she says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Milo says through a chuckle while pulling down a couple of mugs from the cabinet.
“I was always afraid you’d become one of those lazy, entitled American kids. You know, the ones who sleep in and play video games all day. But no. You were always so good about helping me and your dad. All those summers spent here in Portugal with our family served you well.”
She reaches up to pat his cheek with her hand. “My helpful boy.”
I watch as mother and son work side by side in the small space, quietly scooting aside when one needs room to prep or the other needs to reach a cabinet or drawer. It’s like a well-rehearsed choreographed dance. They don’t even bump into each other.
The memory of Tristan and his mother tumbles to the front of my brain. I think back on how many times I saw them together. It was never like this, like it is between Milo and Daniela. Tristan and Portia were never this smiley; they never laughed this much with each other; there was never this ease or comfort between them when they chatted. Their interactions were always so rigid. They hugged sometimes, but they always looked so stiff when they did it. I saw Tristan give his mom a kiss on the cheek a couple of times, but her expression was always so pinched, like she didn’t even enjoy it.
All I remember from their conversations were strained tones and awkward pauses. Almost like they were going through the motions, talking because they thought that’s what families should do, not because they actually wanted to. They chatted about their lives, about work, about their upcoming plans, like everyone does. But there was no warmth, no joy, no ease. It felt like I was watching two strangers acting like mother and son.
Sadness flashes through me. I may not like Tristan or Portia, but I still feel bad for them. What a depressing kind of relationship to have with your family.
Milo and his mom move around in the kitchen, pulling me back to the moment. When I see Milo mix two tea bags—one Earl Grey, one hazelnut—I smile. The nutty-floral aroma mingles well with the bitter-earth scent of the brewing coffee.
He sets a steamy mug in front of me. “Your favorite.”
I tell him thanks and take a careful sip, humming quietly to myself at how good it tastes, even still.
“So. What should we do on our last day in Porto?” Milo asks when the three of us are sitting together at the kitchen table.
“I was thinking Riley and I could have a girls’ afternoon of pampering while you help your dad once he gets back. He’s gone fishing. Again.”
Daniela rolls her eyes, and Milo chuckles.
“Of all the retirement hobbies your dad could have picked, he chose the most dangerous one.”
“ M?e , fishing is hardly dangerous.”
She scoffs behind the mug of her coffee. “It’s the way your father does it, without wearing a life jacket. He can’t even swim.”
She mutters something in Portuguese that has Milo chuckling once more.
“Can you just please meet him at the docks when he’s due back in a couple of hours and take him to do something safe on land? Take him to a bar, order him a beer. He’s English, after all.”
“No problem.”
She squeezes his hand and flashes an adoring smile at him. “Thank you, querido .”
She turns to me. “How does a girls’ day sound?”
“Fantastic.”
Two hours later we’re walking down the hilly cobblestone streets of Porto. We zip into a nearby salon, where Daniela treats me to a manicure and pedicure, despite my protests to pay for it.
She rips my credit card out of my hand when I try to hand it to the nail technician and tsks at me. “When I say my treat, my treat.”
I tell her that I’m getting lunch, which she agrees to. We end up in the Cais da Ribeira neighborhood, meandering along the hilly roads. Older multistory houses line the blocks in every color of the rainbow, all of them topped with adobe tile roofs in burnt orange. It’s like an artist painted the horizon. They look a lot like the medieval-style town house that Milo’s parents live in.
We meander for a while before settling on a small café. We sit at one of the dozen wrought iron tables in the outdoor seating area, under a massive canvas umbrella. After placing our order, I quietly take in how perfect this day has been. I’m getting along with my boyfriend’s mother. She actually likes me—she’s treating me like an old friend rather than a succubus who’s stealing away her beloved baby boy.
“So, Riley,” Daniela says as she adjusts her sun hat. “It is too presumptuous to assume that you’ll come visit again? Hopefully sometime soon?”
I take in the hopeful look in her eyes and smile down at my glass of sparkling water before looking at her. “Not presumptuous at all. I’d love to visit you and Milo’s dad again. You’ve been so welcoming to me, and I’ve had the best time. Thank you for that.”
She frowns slightly, like she’s confused. “You don’t have to thank me. That’s what parents should do—welcome new loved ones into the family.”
“Of course. I guess I’m just not used to this kind of welcome.”
I pull my lips into my mouth, feeling the slightest bit sheepish and unsure if I should say more. In the time that I was with Tristan, I met Milo’s dad twice, but I never met Daniela. She was never at any of the family gatherings in London, since she and Milo’s dad live in Portugal. I remember years ago Milo saying that his mom was born and raised in Portugal, moved to the US for college, and that’s where she met his dad. He had moved there to open the American office of his international real estate company, which Milo now has taken over since his dad retired. They raised Milo in the US but traveled to Portugal and England often to visit their families.
Now that I think about it, it does seem strange that Daniela didn’t come along when Milo’s dad traveled to London.
“I know what you mean,” she says in a soft voice.
I don’t miss the knowing look in her burnt-sienna eyes—the exact same shade as Milo’s. “Do you?”
She nods. “I’m well aware of how Portia treats outsiders. Our husbands are brothers, which means we’re sisters-in-law. But she never treated me like family. I remember how cold she was the first time I met her, the way she looked at me, like I didn’t belong in their family.”
She pauses to take a sip of her water. Her expression twists the tiniest bit, like she’s hurt thinking about the way Portia has treated her.
“I’m sorry she made you feel that way, Daniela,” I say, sad that she’s experienced the wrath of Portia too.
But Daniela waves a hand like it’s no big deal. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not, though,” I say.
She offers a warm smile. “I tried for a long time to get her to like me. I was nice to her, I invited her to spend time with me, I sent her gifts. But nothing worked. She was always cold and dismissive. Probably because I’m twelve years younger than Hugh. A lot of stuck-up people like her don’t approve of anything outside of the social norm, like age gaps, despite the fact that we’re consenting adults. That and the fact that I was too different. Too Portuguese, too American.”
I touch my hand to her arm, hoping it offers her comfort. But judging by the easy expression on her face, she doesn’t need my comfort. She’s okay.
“But I finally realized there was nothing I could do to change her opinion of me. And I realized, too, that I didn’t want or need Portia’s acceptance,” Daniela says. “I have my husband, my son, and my family. They love me and defend me, always. And Hugh’s other relatives are good to me. That’s all I need.”
Daniela gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “I can only imagine what you went through with her,” she says. “I know how ... territorial Portia is over her son. Plus, she’s a bit of a bitch on top of that.”
I choke on my sip of water. One of the waiters stops and asks if I’m all right, and I nod while wiping my mouth with my napkin.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t be so crass.” Daniela aims a sympathetic look at me and pats my hand. “I can imagine the hell it must have been being her daughter-in-law. If anything, she owes you an apology.”
“It wasn’t fun, that’s for sure. I don’t think she liked me, either, because of my background.”
“Oh, Riley. I’m sorry.”
“Honestly, I could have dealt with it okay had Tristan defended me. I mean, I thought he did at first. But now I realize what he was actually doing was keeping the peace by placating her. Whenever she’d say something snide, he’d pull me aside and tell me to ignore her, but he would never outright tell her it was wrong. He never defended me when she’d make some thinly veiled comment about my ethnicity or the way I looked. I didn’t notice just how awful that was at the time. But I do now.”
Daniela’s expression turns pained.
“And the whole time he was cheating on me,” I say quietly.
I’m surprised as the words come out. I’ve never been this open, this honest, with a significant other’s parents before. But Daniela is different. Being around her makes me feel comfortable. There’s a genuineness about her that I felt the moment I met her. I feel it when I’m with Milo too.
I clear my throat. “Love really does blind you to someone’s flaws,” I say, almost to myself.
In the quiet moment that follows, I take stock of how I feel. Not angry or bitter. More just reflecting on the things that happened to me in a relationship that feels like it took place a hundred years ago.
I glance up at Daniela and take in her thoughtful expression as she looks at me. Suddenly my cheeks are on fire. As comfortable as I feel around her, it’s impolite for me to go on and on like this. I really shouldn’t treat lunch with my boyfriend’s mom like a confessional.
“I shouldn’t have unloaded all that on you ...”
She takes my hand in hers. The warmth and softness are instant comfort.
“ Querida. If there’s one thing I want you to leave this place knowing, it’s this: you can always be open and honest with me. About anything and everything. I won’t judge you. Ever.”
I squeeze her hand in thanks. Something about the way she speaks, the honesty and sincerity, rattles me. It’s almost unnerving, and I have no idea why until it hits me: I’m used to dishonesty. When I found out that Tristan was cheating on me, I realized that our years-long relationship had been rooted in lies. I had no idea what was true and what was a lie. And that’s warped my sense of reality.
I take in Daniela’s expression as she looks at me. Concern. Focus. Care. For me.
“Thank you,” I say in a quiet voice.
The waiter drops off our food. We spend a quiet few minutes eating and people watching before Daniela speaks.
“I’m so sorry for what you went through. Being cheated on ... it’s one of the most painful things someone can do to you,” Daniela says. “But I hope you know you’re better off without Tristan.”
I flash a small smile. “I do know that.”
“Good,” she says with a nod. “I know he’s technically my nephew, and for that reason I’ll always care for him and wish him the best, but I won’t stand by a cheater, family or not.”
If we weren’t on a crowded outdoor dining patio, I’d leap over this table and hug her. This woman is legendary. Honest, loyal, fair, and not unwaveringly supportive of someone just because they’re family.
“I don’t know where things went wrong with Tristan,” she says. “He was such a sweet little boy. He and Milo actually played so well together when they were little.”
She turns her head to gaze at something in the distance, a faraway look in her eye. “It seemed like one day they just started hating each other. And now all they do is argue and fight. And to think that Tristan is a liar and a cheater. I just ...”
“Some people are very good at hiding who they truly are.” I’m surprised at how unbothered I sound when I say it.
“You’re right. A mentira tem perna curta. ”
“What was that?”
“‘The lie has short legs.’ It’s a thing my grandmother used to say to me and my siblings when she’d catch us lying. I’d say it to Milo when he was little and I caught him in a lie to help teach him the importance of honesty. You can lie, but the truth will come out. Always. Maybe Tristan’s parents never taught him that, and that’s why he ended up the way he is.”
“Or maybe they did and he didn’t listen.”
Daniela makes a face, as if to say, “Good point.”
“Thank you for teaching Milo to be honest. It’s one of the things I love most about him. He’s such a good person.”
Her eyes turn misty. “The greatest compliment I could ever hope for is to hear that my child has integrity. Thank you.”
We eat our meals in companionable silence, and for a moment I think this is actually perfect. My boyfriend’s mother and I just navigated a personal conversation about complicated family dynamics, shitty relatives, and cheating exes, ending on a hopeful and heartfelt note.
But then I look up, and the momentary joy is shattered. Because there’s Portia Chase, with the most lethal scowl I’ve ever seen her make, staring right at me.