I knew it was more than that.
The adjustment’s been hard, but at least she’s no longer working seven nights a week to make up for Dad’s poor management. No more missing every school activity and birthday. She’s finally free.Thatrealization probably answers most of my questions, but I’m going to crawl in her bed anyway.
Because now that Dad’s gone, I can. I don’t have to hide on her side of the bed after a nightmare, and little me is really happy about that.
“Mom?” I whisper. “How asleep are you?”
I used to askifshe was asleep, and she’d always say, “Nope. I’m doing the dishes.”
“Mmmm … level five. Are you dying?” she groans.
“Not tonight. I just needed to ask you some questions.”
“About?”
“You. Dad. Relationships. Red flags,” I ramble.
“Luce … what time is it?”
“Twelve thirty? It’s not that late.” It hits me that Jude’s back in Eastern time. I kept him up way too late for the chicken farmer hours he keeps.
Back when Mom and I closed the restaurant together every night, we’d unwind with some popcorn and a few episodes ofFriendsright about now.
“Okay, but I’m not sitting up,” Mom says.
“That’s fine. Umm, did Dad do things before you were married that should’ve warned you how bad your marriage would be?”
“I’m sure there were signs.” She yawns.
“Like what?”
“Well, I never had much growing up, so once I had my own money, I liked nice clothes. Nothing fancy, but I liked to be well put together.”
True. Mom’s hair and makeup is never over the top but always prettier than just professional. Her ivory skin is still flawless, and she keeps her sleek, highlighted bob more platinum than my hay-bale color. But there’s no mistaking the olive-green eyes that clearly birthed mine. Growing up, my friends all thought she was gorgeous, and she is.
“Even in manager dress code, you always are,” I tell her, remembering the navy slacks and white blouse with the dated paisley scarf and silver name tag she wore for years.
“He rarely complimented me. Instead, he said things like, ‘Who are you trying to impress?’ I couldn’t tell if it was an accusation or he was just bad at compliments.”
My chest tightens. Nathan did it too, but my dad is the master of uncomfortable comments that aren’t quite insults.
“He had so many preferences, and the list grew daily,” she continues.
“I remember.”
“Right, you learned his triggers—open-toed shoes, red nail polish, and people complimenting me in front of him.”
I knew two of those. The third one’s familiar for a different reason.
Nathan.
I was getting ready for Nathan’s mom’s birthday dinner, so I let him in and went to get my shoes while he waited in the living room. Jude was working on our kitchen sink because Annie had continually washed her hair in it until it wouldn’t drain.
Typically, Nathan just texted from the car, but he probably heard me say DC was there and felt the need to investigate.
When I emerged from the hallway next to the kitchen, the first thing Nathan said was, “You’re wearingthat?”
Jude growled but concealed it as a complaint about the clog. I watched Nathan’s eyes narrow as Jude stood up to test the drainand wash his hands, then snag a bottle of water out of our fridge—clearly stalling.
