“I’ve been on tour,” I choke out. “And hello to you too.”
She smacks my cheek affectionately, then turns to Nora.
And just like that, the hurricane stills.
Nora stands there, smiling politely, shoulders straight, like she’s bracing for impact. But my mom’s gaze softens. She steps forward slowly, takes both of Nora’s hands in hers.
“You’re even prettier than the photos I saw online,” she says warmly.
Nora laughs, startled by the compliment. “I—I’m not so sure about that…”
I slide an arm around her waist. “This is Nora.”
“And you’re Max’s mom,” Nora replies, her voice a little steadier now. “It’s really nice to meet you. Thank you for having me.”
“Oh, sweetheart, you’re welcome here anytime. Especially if you get him to eat vegetables.”
I roll my eyes. “Mom.”
“Don’t ‘Mom’ me. Now sit down before the lasagna burns.”
As we step inside, barreling toward us in orthopedic slippers and a V-neck sweater that should’ve retired in 1983, is my grandfather.
“Sid, slow down!” my mom calls from the kitchen. “You just had your knee shot up with cortisone!”
He ignores her.
“Is this her?” Grandpa demands, pointing a slightly shaky finger at Nora like he’s identifying a spy.
“This is her,” I confirm with a smile. “Nora, meet my grandfather, Sid Donovan. Sid, this is Nora.”
Sid squints at her. Then takes off his bifocals, polishes them on the bottom hem of his sweater—exposing a very unnecessary inch of pale belly—and puts them back on.
He blinks once.
Then again.
“You’ll do fine,” he declares.
Nora lets out a startled laugh. “Um—thank you?”
He nods solemnly. “Good bone structure. Strong jaw. You’ll keep him in line.”
“I’ll do my best,” she replies, biting her lip to hide a smile.
“I once dated a girl with a jaw like that,” he adds. “Could crack walnuts with her teeth. She tried to enlist in the Navy posing as a man. Damn shame about the sideburns.”
“Okay!” I interrupt, putting a hand on Grandpa’s shoulder and steering him gently toward the living room. “Let’s keep the walnut stories for after appetizers, yeah?”
He waves me off. “Just saying—she’s a good match.”
My mom appears just in time with a tray of drinks and a warning glare so sharp I flinch on reflex.
“Sid, let them come in and sit down before you start in with your nonsense.”
We do. Her kitchen table is still the same—dented at one corner, old candle wax stuck to the placemat. There are photos framed on every surface. One of me with a bowl cut at eight, holding my first guitar. One of her and me in front of the old brownstone, arms slung around each other after my first solo show.
Mom pours the wine. Sid squints at the bottle. “Is that wine or prune juice? I can’t risk another episode. The plumbing’s still recovering.”
