Three little dots appear, then disappear, only to dance on the screen again a few seconds later.
EZRA
You’re a menace. See you tomorrow
The music playing in Ezra’s apartment is so loud I can make out every word from the hall. It’s a Frank Sinatra song, though Ol’ Blue Eyes isn’t the one singing. This voice is much more raspy. Ezra, maybe?
I knock and quickly adjust my bra straps beneath my white linen maxi dress while I wait. The bra is new, and so far, I hate it. What I’d give to take it off.Free the nipsand all that jazz.
The door swings open, but instead of a very large man, I’m met by a middle-aged woman with white hair and hazel eyes.
“You must be my daughter-in-law.”
My heart lurches right out of my chest.Come again?
“Mom.” Ezra flies around the corner, his beard dusted white. Either it’s powdered sugar, or my fake husband is doing cocaine at ten a.m.
“Hi,” I say as I’m ushered into the apartment by my, uh,mother-in-law?
As I slide off my sandals, Ezra takes my purse and hangs it by the door.
A whiff of almond and orange passes in the air between us as he eyes me. “You look shocked. Didn’t you get my text?”
Shaking my head, I pull my phone from my purse. Sure enough, I have an unread text.
EZRA
Sorry it’s last minute, but my mom is here. I hope you don’t mind, but she’s staying for breakfast.
“She comes over once a month for breakfast, and I forgot to cancel.” He frowns.
“It’s okay,” I reply, though I’m not sure it is. Typically, I’m great with moms, but in a circumstance like this? I don’t have the first clue how to play things. “Does she know?—”
“About your fake nuptials? Yes,” she answers.
“Oh.” Relief floods my system. I’d hate to lie to more people than necessary.
“I’m Dawn Miller, by the way.” She envelops me in a hug. “You smell good.”
“Thanks.” I return the embrace, surprisingly comfortable in such close proximity to this woman. “I’m Millie.”
“Nice to meet you, Millie.” She pulls back. “Is that short for anything?”
“Amelia.”
“Beautiful. Just like you.” Her smile is bright, and she looks like she wants to pinch my cheeks the way a stereotypical Jewish mother would.
I love this woman already.
“Come, let’s sit and get to know each other,” she says.
I look over my shoulder to her son first. “Do you need any help?”
“I’m almost done here, but do you want to fix your coffee the way you like before you get settled?”
While Ezra fills a mug, I open the refrigerator and find only vanilla oat milk in the way of coffee additives. I suppose beggars can’t be choosers, so I pull it out and turn. “Do you have sugar?”
With the glass jar he offers me in hand, I shake a generous amount into my mug, followed by the oat milk.
