“How is the shop?” Safe question. On the surface.
“Good,” I say. “Busy. Grandma’s good, too.” Because she won’t ask, even though she should. The complications with this one run deep for both my grandmother and for me.
“Give her my love. Busy with what, exactly?”
I glance at my wrist, at the thin band of beads sitting there like it belongs.
“Workshops,” I say. “Community stuff, also selling things. You know. Jewelry and all that nonsense.”
“Hm.”
The hum says everything she doesn’t. I can practically see her expression. The slight tilt of her head. The polite smile that never quite reaches her eyes. I could talk in circles and serve her up a heaping helping of word salad, and she would keep that face. It’s her Perfectionist Face that she keeps on when she’s dealing with politicians and ambassadors.
“That’s nice,” she says. “If that’s what you want to be doing.”
My grip tightens on the phone. I can feel an all too familiar conversation rearing its head, and I don’t want it. Not now, and not tonight. “It is.”
“I hate to see you limiting yourself,” she replies smoothly.
Limiting. The word lands exactly where she intends it to. Right then a beep from my phone distracts me. Glancing at the screen, I see it's my pizza driver, he’s outside. Finally, a reason to get off the phone.
I keep my voice steady as I march to the front door. “I’m not limiting myself.”
“I’m sure you don’t feel like you are.”
There’s that faux-reasonable tone of hers. The one that makes it sound like she’s agreeing with me while doing the exact opposite.
I press my lips together and pull the door open. “Why did you call?”
It’s a simple question that I toss her way as I step out onto the porch at the exact moment the delivery driver turns from his car, pizza box in hand. And then he stops.
His gaze flicks over me. The expression on his face makes me pause and take a moment to look down, and as I do, I realize the state I’m in. My old, faded blue towel wrapped around me. Thevery bare legs. The fact that I am very obviously not dressed for company.
I give him a look. He gives me a look.
We both know exactly what’s happening here.
“Long day?” he asks in a hushed tone, like he’s trying not to smile.
“Something like that,” I whisper back, holding out my hand for the box. “You’re my favorite person right now.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” He passes it over, still looking faintly amused. “Enjoy.”
“Oh, I will.”
In my ear, my mother is still talking.
“—just think it’s important you consider?—”
“Yep. Considering,” I say flatly, rolling my eyes, shifting the pizza box to one arm. The driver snorts under his breath, like he knows exactly what kind of call this is. He then heads back to his car, still shaking his head like I’ve just made his night slightly more interesting. Lucky him.
“I’m not limiting myself,” I repeat, turning away, already half-listening again, yet also noting the sound of the front door as it clicks shut. It is a decisive sound that one can equate to the sealing of a tomb.
I freeze.
No.
No, no, no.
