She looks at me, apprehension in her eyes. "Once a week, unless I have an appointment with him, and then it's the appointment plus our Monday night dinner. Unless he's mowing my lawn on Sunday, but that only started last month."
Twice … and, recently,threetimes a week? Holy shit. Anger rolls through me until I steel myself. My mom doesn’t know what went down with Owen and me. She had no reason to avoid him.
My lips purse. "Why didn't you tell me?"
She could at least have done that.
"You told me not to talk about him.”
I rolled my eyes. “I didn’t want you to ask me about him, but I’d like to have known you adopted a new son.”
She chuckles, thinking I’m joking.
My mom raises one eyebrow. “Would you have wanted to know?"
"Yes."
She cocks her head to the side and narrows her eyes. She doesn't say anything, and I know she's giving me time to reconsider my response, to respond truthfully.
"Maybe," I spit out begrudgingly.
She nods once, slowly. Still giving me time.
"Okay, fine. No. I hate this." I cross my arms and stare at the TV.
"That's more like it." She pats my knee.
I frown, wishing Owen would just fucking leave. "You still should've told me."
"You were in New York, living your dream. I didn't want to put a damper on it by bringing up something difficult."
“You don’t talk to him about me, right?” That was a line I hoped had never been crossed.
My mom raises her hand and tucks the thumb and pinky in. “Girl Scouts honor. Autumn talk is off limits.”
Relief floods through me.
"So, you filtered out the truth every time I called you?"
"Lie by omission, I guess."
"Were your scruples always this flexible?"
She barks a laugh. "No. But things change as you age. Facing death challenges perspectives."
With that one sentence, my indignation fizzles out. I am reminded of why I am here—not that I forgot.
Mom looks behind me, placing a smile on her face, and I turn around.
Owen steps into the edge of the living room, looking between us with uncertainty. This has to be weird for him too. He's been coming here once a week for years, and has probably never felt more uncomfortable and unwelcome.
There was a time when he was here constantly.Mi casa es su casawas a literal term when we were together.
Without warning, nostalgia sneaks its way into my chest. I don't like how it softens the tension, blunting the edges of the annoyance I feel at Owen's presence in my mother's life.
"Kitchen is clean," Owen announces. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his pants. "Thanks for dinner, Faith. I'll see you on Thursday." He starts for the door.
Something sharp juts into my side.
