I sit in the swivel stool at my workbench and spin it around to face her, and then I briefly recount how amazing and genius-level smart my boyfriend is. The whole time, Greta watches me with that same knowing grin. When I finish, she nods and stands as she picks up a piece of paper from her desk.
“It’s so important to be supportive like that,” she says, starting over in my direction. “You two sound like you have a strong relationship. How long have you been together?”
“Five years. Almost six now, actually,” I say, and I look down at my hands in my lap. “But, uh, we’ve been best friends for as long as I can remember. He’s been there for me so much. It’s, um, usually me who’s in need of support. It’s nice to know I can be there to help him when he needs it, too.”
I glance up. Greta’s at her workbench now, half sitting on it while still smiling softly at me. She nods in understanding.
“Relationships aren’t one-sided, even if it seems sometimes like they are. And, contrary to what some will say, they’re not fifty-fifty, either. Sometimes one partner gives more, sometimes it’s eighty-twenty.” She drops her eyes for a second and shrugs. “Hell, I remember days when I couldn’t give anything, and Sabine... well,she carried the weight until I could again. It’s all about being kind and understanding and communicating. And being there when you can, like today.”
She and her wife have been married for almost fifteen years now, but they’ve been together for even longer. Twenty-five years, I think.
I hope Alex and I make it there someday.
My breath catches at the thought, and I look back down at my hands in my lap as I nod. Moments from the last few years replay in my head—times when I’ve helped carry that weight for him without even realizing it. Like that time he got really sick during finals week his freshman year and I spent hours calling and emailing all of his professors to reschedule his exams. And the time he forgot his student ID, which he needed to take his advanced physics midterm during his fourth year in undergrad, and I took a long lunch to bring it to him so he wouldn’t miss the exam. And all the times he would have forgotten to eat if I hadn’t made dinner, not had clean clothes if I hadn’t done the laundry.
He supports me; he’s there for me when I need him in all the ways that count. But he needs me, too, just like he told me that morning at the airport in San Jose nearly six years ago now. And I’m suddenly so glad for the reminder.
After a few seconds of silence, like Greta knows there’s something big going on in my head, she clears her throat. “Here, this is for you. There was a phone call for you just before you got back. I took a message.”
I look up, and she’s offering me the paper she picked up off her desk minutes ago. “Ah, thanks,” I say.
She smiles at me, then tips her head toward her workbench. “Back to it, huh?”
I nod and swivel my stool back to face my workbench. The Maslowski watercolor sits right where I left it, covered with a thinsheet of plain white paper for protection. I need to wash my hands before I get started, so I stand and start toward the sink, unfolding the paper on the way.
The words on the page stop me in my tracks before I even round the corner of my workbench.
For Nico—
Please return call to Cindy @ 402-555-7765
That’s my mom’s name. And my mom’s phone number.
And this is the first time she’s reached out at all in nearly six years.
I quickly crumple the paper up and toss it in the trash can. Then I force myself to move toward the sink again so I can get back to work.
Chapter Two
Alex
TherestofSaturdayand Sunday is busy; since my mom’s only visiting for the weekend, we try to fit a lot in. The three of us go to dinner and a show at a theater near our apartment in San Jose on Saturday night. Then my mom and I head up to San Francisco on Sunday and do all the touristy things—Fisherman’s Wharf, Alcatraz, the Golden Gate Bridge. Nico works all day, says he has a deadline he needs to meet on a project, and so it’s just my mom and me.
It’s not until the train ride home from San Francisco late Sunday evening that I finally tell her what’s been on my mind for months now.
And since I’m nervous as hell about it, I just randomly blurt it out without any lead-in as soon as I’ve gathered the courage.
“So, um, I want to ask Nico to marry me.”
My mom looks up from her phone, her eyebrows arched. “Sweetie—”
“It’s crazy, right? I mean, I’m still in school, and he’s working full-time and has his apprenticeship, and everything’s good but we’re so busy. So it doesn’treallymake much sense. But, Mom, I love him so much, and—”
She reaches across the small table between us and sets herhand on mine. She looks so calm, smiling with amusement at my rambling, and I shake my head.
“It’s crazy, right?”
“No, sweetie,” she says softly. “It’s not crazy. Actually, I’m surprised it’s taken you so long.”
