“Why don’t you come here?”
“Really? You won’t be busy this week?”
“I can cook up something on Sunday before you come over. I, uh, might have a friend for you to meet.”
“Oh.” She paused. “Afriendfriend or just a friend?”
“Yes?”
“Is that a question or a statement?”
“Yes?”
She chuckled. “You always were a dark horse, Finnegan. It’s why I love you so much. Sure, I’ll come to dinner. What can I bring?”
“Caesar salad and lemon meringue pie?” I licked my lips.
“Sounds great. About five?”
“Yes, that would be amazing. Thanks.”
“Finnegan?”
“Yes, Mom?” She was one of the very few people who full named me—even when she wasn’t mad.
“I’m so damn proud of you. Whomever this young man is, I can’t wait to meet him.”
“Yeah, about that…” My mind flashed to the odd silver whisker in Ulysses’s scruff. Hopefully he’d shave before meeting Mom.
“Yes, my dear?”
“He’s…maybe not myyoungman.”
She chuckled. “Is he as old as I am?”
“No.”
“Well, then he’s youryoungman. See you Sunday. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
She cut the call.
I sank farther into the cushions of the couch. Well, that was something. Perhaps a big something.
I texted Ulysses.—Will you come to dinner Sunday? Shit, will you be back by Sunday? —
I waited. Rather impatiently.
—Yes. To both. —
—Great. —
I hesitated. Then added,—I’ll cook. We’ll have company. —
—Oh? Anyone I know? —
—My mother. —
