I swipe at the tears on my face. “I don’t know what to do.”
“You don’t have to know right now. But you do have to think about what you actually want, not just what you’re afraid of.” She stands, coming around the table to pull me into a hug. “And whatever you decide, I’ve got your back.”
I let myself sink into her embrace, breathing in the familiar scent of her perfume and laundry detergent. “What if I ruin it?” I whisper.
“What if you don’t?”
When I finally pull away, Mom brushes the hair back from my face like she used to do when I was little. “You want to stay for lunch? I was going to make enchiladas.”
“Yeah. I’d like that.”
We spend the rest of the afternoon cooking together,talking about safer things, pretending I’m not having a complete romantic crisis, but Mom’s words stay with me, echoing in the back of my mind.
You just have to decide that the possibility of happiness is worth the risk of pain.
And maybe, for the first time, I’m willing to risk it.
When I leave that evening, Mom walks me to my car. “Think about what I said,” she tells me.
“I will.”
“And Natalie? Don’t wait too long. Good men who love you the way Jake does? They don’t come around often.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
On the drive home, I keep replaying the conversation. Mom’s voice mixing with my own doubts, my fears, the small, quiet hope I’ve been trying to ignore. The baby kicks, strong and insistent, and I press my hand to my belly.
“What do you think?” I ask her. “Am I being an idiot?”
She kicks again, and I take it as a yes.
thirty-three
. . .
Jake
“You’re not eating.”
My mom sets a plate of scrambled eggs in front of me. I’ve been sitting at her kitchen table for twenty minutes, staring out the window at the frozen backyard. The oak tree I used to climb as a kid is bare, branches black against the February sky.
I flew out here eight days ago. Called Wyatt after Natalie left, told him what happened. That I’d proposed. That she’d walked out. That I needed to get away before I did something stupid like show up at her door and start begging.
“Go see your mom,” Wyatt had said. “Take a few days. Clear your head.”
So I booked a flight for the next morning. Didn’t tell Natalie I was leaving. What would I even say? She asked for space. I’m giving her space.
Even if it’s killing me.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You haven’t been hungry since you got here.” She sits down across from me, her own coffee untouched. “Jake.”
I force myself to look at her. At sixty-three, Linda Reyes is still sharp, still sees through every defense I’ve ever tried to build. She’s wearing her favorite jeans and one of my dad’s old flannel shirts that she’s had for thirty years and refuses to throw away.
“I don’t know what you want me to say, Mom.”
“I want you to tell me what happened. The real version, not whatever you said on the phone when you told me you were coming to visit.”
