I had to ask. “What’s going on with your mom? Is she still with your dad?”
“I assume so.” She sighed. “She tried to call once, then texted me a bunch, mostly asking me to call. When I didn’t respond, she texted to tell me I need to get over myself.”
“Wow.” Harsh. “I don’t get why she didn’t send him packing.”
She shrugged. “She’s always been way too pragmatic.”
“How is it pragmatic to give him the time of day?”
“She has bills. He makes money. He can lighten some of her load, keep her company.”
I wanted to mention that she could work as a prostitute and be better off, but I knew that wouldn’t fly. I shut up and listened.
“Feed her,” she added. “Push her around, belittle her, make her always feel less than.”
I didn’t get it, and it must’ve been eating Chelsea up. “You must feel so powerless.”
Chelsea reached for the wine bottle and upended the remaining contents into her glass. “I can’t make decisions for her. She never tried to remarry, never thought she’d be worthy of anyone else. I think she’s convinced herself things weren’t all bad, and in some weird way, it validates her to have him crawl back.”
“That’s some tragic nonsense.”
“I know. Maybe she remembers him differently than I do. She knew him before I did. Anyway. It’s her life. I’m done. They’re free to their own hell.”
“I’m sorry, Chelsea.”
She took a long swig of wine, then forced a huge smile. “Christmas with you sounds fun. So yeah. I’d love to meet this family of yours.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Chelsea
Challenge: Try a new cultural experience
We drove to Richmond on Christmas morning. Bas had told me so much about his family, they’d become epic characters I couldn’t wait to meet. I knew the names of his brother and sisters, in chronological order by age. I knew to take off my shoes when I came in the house. I was prepared to have my eardrums shattered from the layers of conversation. And I knew we’d be eating. A lot. I was looking forward to that, of course.
Bas worried his family would overwhelm me, and I intended to do whatever it took to make sure he had no need to fret. As we drove, he said, “My sisters will love you, but Ma can be a tough sell with girlfriends.” He shot me a nervous glance. “Or friends.” He’d also told me that with my coloring and bossy ways I could almost pass as Greek. He let slip, “Imayhave insinuated a little bit that your mom was Greek.”
As far as I knew, my mom was Irish. Still, whatever got me through the door. I wanted his family to adore me because it was important to Bas. Did he sense how much it meant to me, too? I didn’t expect to be folded in like a fourth sister, but even being a welcome guest in a family structure as rich and loving as his excited me.
The girlfriend comment, though…
He and I had fallen into a comfortable state of limbo. I’d heeded Dr. Rubin’s advice to open up, but we were still in the early stages. Instinctively, I knew we were heading somewhere.Bas had changed in some significant way. He’d become more patient, more attentive, more amazing. Before Thanksgiving, I’d been white-knuckling a romance I was in no way ready for. Now our friendship felt natural, like we’d known each other for years, and he found ways to melt my fears, gently, painlessly. It scared me to think of forging a long-term commitment still, but for the first time in my life, it also felt possible. Given enough time.
But if there could ever be a future for us, I needed to impress his family.
He’d neglected to tell me what we’d be eating, so the smells that greeted us as we entered his parents’ house surprised me. For some reason, I’d assumed it would be the same as everywhere else. Not that my mom and I had done anything traditional for the past decade at least. It pleased me to realize this was going to be anything but the usual Christmas dinner.
Bas froze in the mudroom and gave me a scared-little-kid grimace. “This is it,” he said, ominously. “God, I hope you’ll love this and won’t want to kill me.”
I touched his arm. “It’s gonna be great.”
The kitchen looked like a restaurant. Every conceivable space on the counter and table had something crammed onto it. A woman, maybe ten years my senior, moved nonstop, chopping, spicing, stirring. An older lady who had to be Basil’s mom stood at the kitchen table kneading a fat ball of dough. The two women resembled each other with their thick, dark hair. So far, I could see where Bas came from, even if he claimed he was the resident misfit.
The older woman stopped as soon as she saw us. Her hands flew up to her face, spraying flour into her hair. “You came. I started to think you were lying in a ditch somewhere. Why didn’t you call?”
I tried not to laugh. Bas had not exaggerated the drama.
She came over and gave him a beast of a hug. Bas winced andsmiled at me. “I did, Ma. Last night.”
