Sylvie
“I was robbed,” I say cheerfully. The waitress gives me a startled look.
“You were robbed?”
“I was.” Gauntlet thrown: my mom needs to parent me for once.
“What on earth happened? Was there a gun?”
“I was at a campsite. Winslow took off, and I ran after him before I had a chance to lock the van. This drifter girl got in and took a bunch of my stuff.” I pour myself an iced tea. I don’t pour anyone else’s. “Including my credit card. So I had to pick up mine from the PO box.”
“I don’t even know where to start,” my mom says. “You know I’ve always felt that dog was more trouble than he’s worth.”
“You decided to get Winslow. You paid for him and brought him home.” At the mention of his name, his nose pops up onto the table, and my mom swats it with a napkin.
“I did, in fact. He’s my dog. You didn’t have to take him on your little adventure.”
I shut my eyes, then open them. “Yes. That’s true.”
“And then you wouldn’t have to be chasing after him all the time, like you’re some kind of street urchin—”
“Mom. He needs to be chased down because he runs away. I don’t do it for fun, or to look like Oliver Twist. If I left him here in Springfield . . .”
“What are you implying?” Her voice is getting shrill. Knox looks so uncomfortable. And it’s my fault.
So I fold. “We don’t have a fenced yard,” I say, as diplomatically as I can.
“The HOA won’t allow it!”
“Or an electric fence—”
“You know those things don’t work.”
Appeasement. “Mom, you’re in great shape—I mean, I would love to look as good as you do—but I’m the runner. I ran cross-country. I’m fine chasing after Winslow.”
“Well,” she says, relieved to be let off the hook. “As long as you’re okay. I hope you don’t make a habit of leaving the van unlocked.”
“No, Mom,” I say. “I don’t.”
“It’s good you have your knight in shining armor here. I feel a lot more comfortable with you having a man around, Syl.”
Knox is staring into his napkin like it holds the answers.
“Actually I was saved by two boomers named Dan and Jan.” I lift my iced tea. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” my mom says. Knox lifts his water glass an inch, then sets it down.
We sit in silence for approximately fifteen million years.
“So,” she says with forced brightness. “Is this the look now? Like the trend on TikTok?” She’s looking at Knox. His hair is shaggy, curling at the ends.
“No, ma’am,” he says. “I don’t have access to TikTok.”
“What are you referring to?” I ask my mom, honestly curious.
“Oh, you know. All those boys with blow-dryers now. It’s the thing, to have this very sort of done hair, but then the clothes that look like they come from Goodwill.” She’s looking at the holes where Knox’s collar is pulling away from his T-shirt. “When of course it’s rag and bone.”
“I actually think he got that at Comme des Garcons.” I say it with a straight face.
Knox looks like he’s about to explode into flames.
“Well, I like it much better than that thing Cal had going on. Adidas slides, but the fake ones. It was tacky, you know? Basketball shorts. Just sloppy.” She refills her tea. “Knox, you look . . . intentional.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Knox says, because what the hell else is he going to say?
“I mean his manners are so much better too. Night and day.” My mom nods to herself, like she’s settled on it. “I really think you’re on the fast track to healing, Syl. To face your fears, after that horrible accident—to really get behind the wheel—”
This is not the first time my mom has used that particular metaphor, and it won’t be the last.
“—and find yourself again, find love again?”