Chapter 21 #3
She's chatting with some stranger about the weather, pretending I'm invisible, so I turn my eyes to the traffic light that's red for pedestrians and glance at my building in front of me.
Then, across the street, I notice someone waving. A man. Grey rain jacket, hood up over his sharp jaw like he wants to blend in. Like he ever could.
Ben catches me staring and smiles, jogging across when the light turns green, and I smile back like some idiot who won't have her heart broken.
Three steps in front of me, the umbrella unfurls ceremonially—Italian flag with gondolas.
"Oh no. You brought this?" I can't stop the sputtering laugh that escapes.
"I'm a romantic at heart," he says, fighting his grin, and winks. "And it's for you. I don't mind rain."
He doesn't wait and steers me underneath. Then his eyes fall on my shoes and my gritty calves.
"They were salmon," I say, lifting one foot for emphasis.
"They're stew now," he says, shaking his head. "Honestly, how have you survived this long without me?"
I shrug playfully, but my pulse stutters. Ben's posture shifts too, shoulders square, face turned toward my mother who wedged herself under the umbrella, her eyes darting from Ben to me.
"Em?" she asks, frowning.
I don't even manage to open my mouth when Ben, without missing a beat, pulls his hoodie off so she can recognize his face.
"Mrs. Foster." He gives her his charming smile. "It's been ages, but you haven't changed a bit. How are you?"
"Ben?" Mom blinks. Once. Twice. Three times. "Well. This is... unexpected."
I can tell her brain's buffering. She's thinking what's Ben Bellini doing back in her daughter's life when she herself told me he was a bad idea—not as a boyfriend, not even as a friend. She never fully explained why, just let it hang there, knowing it would fester.
"I know. I was just going to the store when I saw Emma struggling in the rain."
"But what are you doing here?"
"He, uhm—Ben moved into our building," I rush out. "With his wife."
Mom frowns like that's the weirdest alibi she's ever heard.
"Interesting," she says finally. "What a coincidence. Still work at the hospital? ER, wasn't it?"
Ben smiles. "You remember? I'm flattered."
"I remember everything about my daughter," she says, sounding offended.
Ben's eyes harden instantly, his patience for my mother hitting expiration date very quickly.
"As you should," he says with a cold tone, and before my mother can react, he pivots with that calm, lethal grace. "How's Frank? Still coaching little league?"
The question pulls me back to that one Saturday when Ben picked me up from my parents' house and ended up in the backyard batting with Dad. Dad never talked more with anyone in his life, I think. Said I should invite him over again but I never did because of Mom.
"Yes," she says, clipped. "Still stuck in his own world of sports and gasoline."
Ben nods, eyes saying he's not surprised my dad prefers carburetors to her.
"People just never change, do they?" he taunts as he watches her. "Especially the bad traits."
Mom squints, finally catching up. She gives him a tight-lipped smile. "Well, I'm sure you are busy. So are we. Thank you for the chivalry."
"No worries. You know, Italians. Our mothers would kill us if we let women walk in the rain."
Mom freezes. Looks up at the gondola umbrella, then at the boy she told me to forget, and right there, clear as the sliver of sun breaking through the clouds, she gets that I never did.
All because Ben's too Italian to let me get soaked. It'd almost be funny if I didn't feel like throwing up.
"Oh. Right. Italian," she says flatly.
Ben insists on walking us back to the glass deck, gentleman to the end. Nobody's talking, which somehow feels louder than if we were.
"Always a pleasure, Mrs. Foster," he says, the sarcastic tone obvious. My mother only nods, not even faking a smile.
Ben turns to me, and his voice goes softer, private: "See you later, Emma."
I meet his eyes for one second too long. "Later."
And then he walks off, lowering the umbrella, vanishing into the blur of streets, and every instinct in me wants to follow, run wherever he goes.
When I turn back to my mother, she threatens me with that look she's used countless times when I was younger, living under her roof.
"Tell me it's not what I think it is," she says, her eyes searching my face.
I swallow hard, wanting to tell her that yes, actually, I have screwed up yet again, but instead, I summon that familiar, practiced smile and say, "I have no idea what you mean."
She exhales a pained breath and takes a step closer. "Don't act like a child. Why is he here?"
I roll my eyes. "Because his wife runs a beauty brand from here, that's why."
"Are you lying to me?" She tilts her head, eyes narrowing on me as I shake my head. "Emma, I'm your mother. I know when you are lying. I knew it the second you opened that door."
"I'm not lying," I snap.
She drags in another pained breath. "Richard called me a few days ago. He had concerns."
I blink. Richard called her? About me?
Of course, now it all makes sense—the surprise visit, the biscuits, the casualness. They set it up.
"What kind of concerns?" I mutter.
She ignores my question and steps closer, eyes darting around to see if the rain is listening. "If you've done anything, stop right now. Erase all traces—"
"Stop, Mom."
"Richard is a respectable man, he won't tolerate—"
"Mom—"
"The consequences will be catastrophic." Her voice spikes. She glances around again and tunes it to a whisper. "You know that. He would never tolerate any of that. You'd lose everything."
When I glare at her, she crosses her arms, eyes sharp. "With a married man? Really? For God's sake, what do you think are his intentions with you, other than ruining your life?"
Her words find the cracks in me, just like always.
I drag in a breath, steadying the chaos inside me. Count five cabs passing by in the streetlight and imagine stepping into any of them, leaving her behind.
Then I realize she's the one to go.
"Do you want me to call you a cab?" I ask, my voice tired, and her eyes instantly flare at my dismissal.
A beat.
Then she spits a razor-sharp "no" before storming off, shaking her head with visible disappointment, knowing I'll see it and it'll cut.
I hate that she's right and it does.
But worst of all, I hate that she's right about more than that.
What the hell am I doing?