“I did. Twice. You’ve got the TV up so loud I can hear the backsplash debate from the driveway.”
“I like the way that one lady talks.” She lifted her chin defensively. “It’s relaxing.”
A laugh nearly broke free. Emma had said the same thing—had joked the host could narrate a hostage crisis and still sound like she was describing throw pillows.
They’d have gotten along. Too well. The thought hit like a punch to the ribs.
A heartbeat later came the heavy sweep of the deadbolt, then the faint whoosh of air as the door opened.
Ending the call, I slid the phone into my pocket and forced a smile as she appeared in the doorway—haloed by golden light, garlic, and the faint scent of home.
“Happy birthday.” I pulled her into a hug.
“Thank you, honey,” she said, voice muffled against my chest. When she pulled back, her expression was bright and mischievous. “Are you taking me to that nice steak place again?”
“You mean the one we’ve gone to the last five years?” A brow raised. “The one I reminded you about this morning?”
She rolled her eyes, perfectly her. “You’re such a pain.”
“And you’re impossible.”
“Flattery won’t get you out of visiting more often,” she said, waving me off.
“I call every day.”
She waved that off as well. “A call’s not the same as a visit.”
I let my mouth hang in mock offense as I followed her to the car. She took my forearm for balance—the same hands that had worked two jobs and raised two boys alone after the yelling stopped.
It was one of the few truths I’d given Emma last night.
My father’s name was a blank I’d carried my whole life, one my mother never spoke and I never pressed for. Ripping that wound open hurt, but holding on to her now made it worth it.
By the time we reached the restaurant, the skyline had deepened to blue, the city stretching like a living thing outside the glass.
“Aww, thank you, sweetheart,” she said when she saw the lilies—her favorite—white with pink-tipped petals on the table. Their perfume mingled with seared meat, buttered bread, and the chill sweetness of the Château d’Yquem waiting in its bucket.
Flowers had been my mother’s first language of love—beauty made meaningful because it never lasted.
Emma’s flowers last night had been the same. An apology without words. Hope laid bare—and shattered.
“I love it here,” Mom murmured, gazing through the glass as I popped the bottle and poured two healthy measures.
“Yeah, I know.”
We ordered quickly, not bothering with the menu—her porterhouse for two, my filet mignon, medium rare. Me? Sweet potato, extra brown sugar—just like last night.
“What were you talking to Dianne about earlier?” I asked.
Her whole expression lit up. “Oh—your cousin Alice is getting married next year.”
“Really? To whom?”
Her grin turned sly. “It’s a man.”
I choked, coughing into my napkin. “Alice? As in Pride-parade-Alice?”
“Apparently he just appeared one day,” she said, amused. “Dianne’s as confused as we are. Alice says he’sthe one.”
