I huff out a breath. “It’s complicated.”
“It always is.”
We sit in silence for a moment while the cooking show host loudly cracks eggs into a bowl.
Finally she says, softer, “You deserve someone good, sweetheart.”
My throat tightens a little. “I’m not looking.”
She gives me that knowing side-eye. “You weren’t looking, but something found you anyway. Kind of like that fifty dollar dinner table I found at the resale shop. It found me. That’s how life works. What’s meant to find you, finds you. Whether or not you’re looking.”
I glance away because she’s too close to the truth.
And the truth is…
I can’t stop thinking about Elena.
Her laugh.
Not to mention her direct honesty, and her chaos and warmth.
The cherry on top, though, was her saying “derrière” like she was in a black-and-white French film.
Jesus.
I look down at my hands, trying to restrain a smile. “It’s not an option, Ma.”
“Why not?”
“She’s a client,” I say. “And older.”
Mom snorts. “Older just means better stories.”
I choke out a laugh.
“And my manager already warned me it looked… unprofessional.”
At that, her face changes, then softens.
I can tell she’s worried.
“Well don’t get fired over a girl,” she murmurs.
“I won’t,” I promise. “I’m keeping it professional.”
I take her empty tea mug to the kitchen, rinse it, and when I come back she’s drifting off as the TV hums quietly.
I turn off the lights, tuck the blanket around her shoulders.
On my phone screen, my calendar reminder pops up:
Thursday — 5:30 PM — Elena R.
I stare at it too long.
“Professional,” I whisper.
But my chest is already warm, already expectant, already betraying me.
