“Right this way,” the woman says as she whisks us to a bright white table that looks like it’s an antique that’s been repainted.
“Do you know where this is from, Dahlia?” I ask, reading the hostess’s name tag. “Or can you ask the manager?”
She pauses, then shrugs. “Sure.”
My mom arches a knowing brow when Dahlia takes off. “Really?”
“How will I know where to find the best deals if I’m not constantly on the hunt? Also, you’re one to talk.”
“You’ve always been my daughter,” she says, resigned but proud—since, well, I am a lot like her. She’s semi-retired from her work as an antiques dealer, but she can’t resist still dabbling in it. I suppose I get my ambition from her.
She runs her fingers along the wood of the table. “And yes, this is a nice one. You have a good eye, Skylar.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I say, appreciating the compliment, like I’ve always appreciated her support—and my dad’s too.
After we order, she returns to the Landon topic, giving me avery sorrylook. I’ve seen it a lot since he broke things off. “I should never have encouraged you to take your time with him,” she says, frowning. “I really thought he was a great guy.”
“Don’t feel bad. So did I,” I say, wishing she’d stopbeating herself up for having been a cheerleader of both the relationship and the there’s-no-rush-with-romance approach she advocated for me in my twenties. And that I, admittedly, followed.
“I know, but it’s a mother’s job to see the potential pitfalls,” she says, then rolls her eyes. “I mean, I can’t depend on your father for that. He wears rose-colored glasses.”
“He does,” I say, my voice warm with affection for him. “But Mom, it’s fine. Landon broke up with me more than a year ago, and it’s not your fault I wasted five years on him.”
She winces. “Ouch.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I say quickly, realizing how harsh that sounds when I replay my words.
“I know, sweetie,” she says, smoothing her napkin over her lap. “I just wanted you to have what your dad and I have, so I told you to take your time with him. I thought he was the right guy.”
So did I.
Not only was my longtime ex charming, but he dreamed big. The idea of opening a board game shop seemed like the height of kitschy charm to me. We both loved playing board games, so when he announced plans to open a shop, I did nothing but encourage him—to create a business plan, to go for it, to find a spot, to nab a loan.
And Landon was into it, making promises—we’ll move into a new place after the store opens, we’ll get engaged once it’s up and running, we’ll get married the year after.
But he could never move ahead. Everything was alwaysjust around the corner.
If I ever called him out on it, he’d tug me onto ourcomfy couch, nuzzle my neck, and say, “Babe, I’m getting there. Just support me and play CATAN with me. When you push, it stresses me out.”
I’d wanted to support him. It’d seemed like the right thing to do. So I paid most of the bills while he worked as a bartender by night and a dreamer by day.
One day, he met someone else. Packed up. Told me he was going to open the store—withher.
At first, I was too shocked to be mad. But then I was angry for a while. Next, hurt. Then just sad.
Now I’m simply smarter. More self-protective. A woman who’s learned her lesson.
But I also don’t want my mom to think her honest encouragement and support have anything to do with why I stayed so long. I simply picked the wrong guy but believed he was the right one. I won’t be so foolish next time. I’ll ask better questions at the outset. I’ll spot the red flags. And I won’t give my heart to someone who won’t tend to it.
I meet the gaze of my biggest supporter—her brown eyes are earnest. Full of that mom worry as she rearranges her utensils.
“It’s okay, Mom,” I try to reassure her. “I have Simon and Cleo while Adam’s in Europe, and my podcast and my friends. My business is growing, but it takes a lot of work and focus to establish myself and my brand of design in this economy. Now I've got this big opportunity...and it's best if I give that my all.”
The server arrives with our food, and Mom seems to take a beat to consider all that as he sets down the dishes. “That makes sense,” she says when he’s gone. She lifts her fork. But before she takes a bite of her salad, she asks, “So…there’s no one new on the horizon?”
It’s asked gently, with no pressure.
And it’s strange that an image of Ford flickers past my mind.
