Chapter 21 #2
I drag my hands over my face to cover my eye roll.
She calls him her golden boy not only because he's blond and bankable, but because men like Richard are precious and rare.
And by the way, they don't go for girls like me, so I should worship the ground he walks on. Polish it, just to make sure he stays.
"I am here. Haven't seen you in so long... Oh yes, come for lunch! Make one Foster happy today, will you?" Her eyes run over my robe again. "I think Em was expecting you anyway... Wonderful, see you soon!" Click.
She leans over the counter. "Are these fresh?" She means the tray with Ben's indecent cannoli.
"Yes," I mutter.
She turns the tray around and examines it, then grabs one without asking, bites and instantly hums.
"Very good," she says with ricotta in the corner of her mouth.
I watch her, caught somewhere between laughing and screaming. If this isn't proof I need better boundaries, I don't know what is.
"Italians know their way around the kitchen," she says.
"And other things." It slips out, all innuendo in it, before I can catch myself.
She pauses mid-chew, expression buckling. "Excuse me?"
"I said that I agree," I say too fast, but her brows are still furrowed.
"Where did you get them?"
"Oh. They opened a new Italian bakery around Rincon," I lie, pacing to the closet, each step making me angrier. I'm pissed at myself, pissed at the situation.
I close the door and sigh at my reflection.
Goodbye red lace. Hello, boring cotton, wool sweater, all evidence of pleasure erased.
When I return, she's rinsing her hands from the last traces of ricotta down the drain, wipes them and straightens her pearls.
"How's the writing going? Samantha told me she read You Don't Know This. She loved it. I was proud."
I turn to her, frowning. Did I mishear? Or did she confuse me with someone who's ever been enough for her?
I guess not, because then she adds that she read it too and it was well written, and I give her the driest thanks, despite the way it punches a hole in my chest. Because I'm disoriented, scanning for tripwires the way I used to as a kid.
My mother vowed she'd never read my work, probably because she was terrified of what I might expose. A wise self-preservation tactic because my writing is my disguised open journal.
"The mother character, though?" she adds suddenly. "She was complex."
Here it comes. She must know it's her. She'll say how I exaggerated, how I always twist things.
"I understand her in a way," she says instead, calm as a pond. "It's not easy to be a parent. You children always think that we're perfect, and that puts a lot of pressure on us."
My face empties out. "Yeah. I guess."
She mumbles something else, but I'm nose deep in my phone.
Ben: I'm with you. Bring an umbrella if you go out
"How's your sleep?" Mom asks.
"My sleeping?" I echo, brows knitting on their own, and put my phone away.
"Yes. Is it better?"
"Eeh, yeah. It's good."
"No nightmares?"
Okay, now I'm genuinely concerned. Is this a stroke? Some neurological glitch masquerading as maternal concern? My mother never talks about my mental issues.
I stare at her too long. Then snap, "No."
"Everything else is fine?"
"Yes."
"Really?"
A nervous breath punches out of me. "Why do you keep asking? Everything's fine."
She crosses the room and for a second, I think she's going to say something biting, but instead, she puts her hand on my shoulder and brushes it lightly with her thumb, the way she used to when I was very, very little. The way I missed.
"Good."
?
An hour later we're sitting in one of Richard's favorite restaurants. All dark beams, orange lanterns, and Shanghai nostalgia in black-and-white photos on the walls.
They've already dissected every rumor and my mother's desperate ploy to get invited to his parents' chalet.
"The horse statue is stunning," Mom croons, reaching across to squeeze Richard's hand and he smiles at her briefly.
"I knew you'd love it," he says as the waiter hovers, refilling our glasses.
Meanwhile, my phone buzzes and I take it under the table.
Ben: Knock knock
I glance at Richard and Mom. They're debating the statue's craftsmanship and the bronze patina, so I sneak a quick reply.
Me: Still hostage at lunch. What's the emergency?
Ben: You left something
Me: My dignity?
Ben: Your hair tie. It's in my pocket
Ben: Feels like permission
Me: Permission for what?
Ben: To remember how you cry when I fist it and yank you on me. How you drip when I hold you there
Ben: My hand's already busy picturing you
Oh my god. My hand flies to my mouth, faking a cough when Mom looks at me for a second.
I smile at her, try not to combust, not to melt into the upholstery.
Me: You're evil
Ben: No. I'm helpless
Ben: Text me as soon as you're free
Ben: Unless you want me to come find you
I press the heart emoji, slide the phone under my thigh, and when I look up, Richard's completely zoned in on his stock portfolio. Mom's emerald eyes are drilling straight through me, though.
"Em, you're still chewing with your mouth open," she sighs like she's embarrassed.
"Oh. Sorry." I set the fork down, careful not to make any noise and deflect. "Richard invested in some new technology that's supposed to reverse aging by ten years."
"Lydia doesn't need it," Richard jumps in, putting his phone down for once. "Her genes are why I married you."
Mom grins, swatting him with her French-manicured hand, and he winks at her.
Honestly, they should just marry each other and spare me the third-wheel charade.
Mom repositions her napkin and shifts in her seat. "Speaking of genes. You two really ought to move out of the city. That city box can't be good for you."
My brow arches. "Two thousand square feet is a box?"
"But when you have children?" she presses. "They'll need a garden."
My eyes must do something dramatic because she instantly pivots to Richard. "You are working on them, aren't you?"
"Mom!" I hiss, leaning over the table. "That's private!"
"It's not," Richard cuts in and puts his phone on the table, next to his dumplings. "It's a family matter, and I agree with Lydia."
The betrayal punches straight through me, and I slump back into the seat. "Huh? Since when? Didn't you call your little niece a whiny stink bomb?"
He dabs his mouth, composed, like he didn't hear it. A shrug. "I just think children would complete the package."
My lips purse as I stare at him, stunned. Not 'You'd be a great mother' or 'I love you so much I want to have a mini-you.' The package. Like I'm some accessory that comes with the house, the car and the chandelier.
Mom doesn't care how it sounds, she starts filling in for Richard and painting the picture with her hands.
"Absolutely. Family photographs, matching outfits, a home by the ocean. You guys will be picture-perfect."
Richard nods along, smiling at me. "You will write when you have time."
The salad curdles in my mouth. I push my plate away and level him with a flat look. "Whenever I have time? Writing isn't a hobby for me, Richard."
He rolls his eyes dismissively. "You're not Nabokov. You write heartbreak romance, and there's too much of it in the world already."
Wow. Unbelievable. And out of all people, in front of my mother?!
I scoff, slap my napkin on the table, forget about wiping my mouth on it first, and snap, "I don't want to have children."
The table stills, chopsticks hanging midair.
My mother's mouth hangs open as she sets the dumpling back on her plate.
Meanwhile, Richard stares long enough for the air to feel haunted.
"Well, that's news to me," he says finally, his tone glacial.
It's news to me too because I do want kids—just not with a man who checks out before the first diaper. Not if they'll have to decode love from absence the way I used to. Not if they'll inherit this.
"Dessert?" I ask, but it's the devil asking—I could never pull off that wicked smile with it.
Richard won't order it. Plus, he must be late for work.
Sure enough, he checks his watch.
"Excuse me, Lydia. I have to go. Please come visit us again soon," he says, kissing her powdered cheek.
When it's my turn, he kisses the space beside me, then flips open the checkbook and scratches out a line. 30% tip on a meal he barely touched.
That's Richard—never let the staff think you're anything less than generous, even when you're storming out on your wife.
"We'll talk at home," he tells me quietly and then he's gone.
My mother stands without a word and walks away, so I follow her out.
When she realizes it's raining, she curses the sky under her breath, pulling her scarf over her fresh blow-out.
"Let me get a taxi—"
"No. I want to walk," she snaps.
"Are you sure? It will be about twenty minutes."
"Yes," she says, already leaving me behind.
I shrug and walk behind her. All I care about is texting Ben.
Me: Left the restaurant. Walking home now
He replies instantly, like he was waiting by the phone.
Ben: Got the umbrella?
Me: No. It's fine. Rain's not the worst thing I've walked through today
The silence between Mom and me turns deafening by the time we hit Market Street, and with each step, the guilt tags along.
I almost apologize to her for blowing up their perfect lunch when I see her sour face, but then I notice the city lights spilling over the wet pavement, and my mood elevates.
"Look," I tell Mom, my hand shooting up. "Doesn't it look like neon ribbons? Pretty cool, huh?"
Mom barely glances down at the pavement before she notices me and scowls. "What on earth are you doing?"
I stand in the drizzle, arms stretched wide, letting the sky kiss my face. I don't know why, but suddenly I feel not guilty, but free to be myself.
Mom snaps at me, "You'll get sick," and stalks off even faster, heels clicking on the wet sidewalk. I watch her go, and for once, it doesn't hurt me.
I quietly walk behind her, purposely dragging my shoes through a few puddles before I catch up with her.