“Photos it is,” Rosemary declares.
“Mom, no,” Klein says firmly.
“Klein, don’t be such a stiff. What’s a little baby butt between friends?” Her gaze shifts from Klein to me and back to Klein again. “That’s what you are, right? Friends?”
Beer bottle poised at his lips, Klein says, “In a manner of speaking.”
“Paisley, have you forgiven him for his cruel critique of your story?”
My mouth drops open.
Klein’s eyes bulge. “Remind me to tell Oliver’s soccer coach about the time Eden dropped her shorts in a public place and tried to pee on a palm tree.”
“You weren’t born yet when that happened. You can only repeat embarrassing stories if you were alive and aware enough to remember them yourself.” Rosemary pats the top of my hand. “Klein’s sister is very thorough when she gossips about him.”
I don’t have to meet Klein’s sister to know that every ounce of gossip about her brother sits on top of a gallon of love. This home has love and acceptance seeping from its walls, as if anybody who grew up here automatically absorbed those qualities.
Klein included. It must be why, after almost eight years, he still feels bad about my story.
“To answer your question, Rosemary, I have notforgiven Klein yet. But I might consider it after I see those baby pictures.”
Rosemary belts out a laugh. She pats her son’s shoulder and says, “It’s too bad she’s not your real girlfriend. I like this one.”
Klein’s lips form a grim line and he says nothing.
Rosemary puts the finishing touches on the beef stew she has made, and tells me about her job as a florist assistant at a store called Nice Stems.
“Last week we had an order for a dozen black roses. The card read,Fuck you both, you deserve each other. The delivery address was to a fancy hotel.”
“Cheating, I assume?” Klein asks, placing spoons beside the bowls he has set out.
“Safe assumption,” Rosemary responds.
“I can’t understand why someone would do that.” Klein shakes his head.
“My dad cheated on my mom,” I blurt out, immediately regretting the admission. It’s this home, I think, and its coziness. The general feeling of acceptance leeches the secrets out of a person.
Klein, bent over the table as he lays napkins out, freezes. His eyes are on me, watching. The color drains from his face. Is he waiting for me to cry? To become visibly upset?
Rosemary breaks in with a wine refill. “I’m sure that was difficult for everyone involved,” she says diplomatically.
I nod. “Yes.” I grab my glass of wine and take a long drink to nurse my vulnerability hangover.
Klein ladles stew into bowls, and Rosemary hands out chunks of crusty bread lathered in butter.
The meal is delicious. Rosemary is witty, sharing stories about Klein as a teenager. More than once I find myself thinking about how odd this all is, like taking a class about a person who just a few weeks ago I would’ve thought of only in my memory.
Rosemary does most of the talking. I pepper her with questions, and Klein steps in here or there to offer a word of defense or addition to what Rosemary has to say.
“He was a difficult teen,” Rosemary says, looking at Klein with nothing but the purest of a mother’s affection, “but that was only because he spent so much time when he was younger being?—”
“That’s enough,” Klein says, eyeing her meaningfully. Rosemary nods in immediate understanding.
My curiosity is piqued, but I know better than to pry.
As promised, Rosemary shows me a few baby pictures after dinner. “He was chubby. His dad called him Brutus.”
The mention of his father rolls easily off Rosemary’s tongue, but Klein, seated beside me on the sofa, flinches.
