Her voice softens. “Jamie, I’ve watched that page for a while. And you’re right. They don’t post jobs like that very often. So I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t do everything in my power to give you this shot.”
Something pangs in my heart. A bit of empathy, I think. How hard was it for her to let me take care of her? For Mom, who hadn’t missed a daily jog since I’d started my PhD, to not be able towalk? Of course she’s not trying to get rid of me, as that anxious little voice says. She must feel guilty. How many times has she berated herself internally for not watching her step better? As many times as I’ve berated myself for not being there to shovel, I’m sure.
“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it. I still don’t feel like I deserve it, still worry I’ll disappoint her, but I’m confident that this is what she wants. I’m confident that I can give it a try. And that she’ll be waiting with open arms if it all goes to shit.
“Ooh!” she squeals, wiggling in her seat. “I’m so excited! I love house hunting.”
Mom really does. No matter how grim the reason for moving was, she always lit up with the thrill of hunting down the perfect place for us, haggling with the landlord, playing on sympathy, getting us a good deal. It made our life seem a little more adventurous, a little less scary.
And that excitement is infectious. I consider as I chew another bite of chicken and potatoes, then let my voice go a little coy as I ask, “How much harder will it be to find somewhere that allows a cat?”
Mom’s eyes shine as if I just handed her the moon. “Nighimpossible,” she says reverently. “But I am a fucking miracle worker.”
Chapter 4
JAMIE
Three weeks later
The apartment Mom found is clean, in a nice building, near a subway station, allows cats, and just barely fits within my budget, which means the compromise is that it’stiny. It’s debatable whether it’s a one-bedroom apartment as the listing said, or a studio apartment with a large closet. My full-size mattress and nightstand just barely fit in the ‘bedroom,’ but I actually don’t mind the bedroom being small—it’s cozy. Especially with the bay window that looks out over an inner courtyard, offering a view of flowering trees lush with mid-spring color and squirrels bounding along their branches.
The main room is white and featureless with a utilitarian galley kitchen—more of a kitchenette with its undersized fridge and lack of dishwasher—but Mom assures me I’ll make it feel like home in no time.
“I’m exhausted.” I flop back onto a freshly assembled couch with the unpronounceable Swedish name. I know it’s the only way to get Mom off her feet—she thinks she’s been successfully hiding her wincing.
“Ah,” she sighs, propping her feet up next to me, pretending she’s being lazy and not trying to get the blood to drain out of her swollen foot. “I’m starving. Ooh! I’m ordering Chinese.” She pulls out her phone. “There’s no good Chinese around Pleasantwood…”
She grew up near a city. I wonder what else she misses from that life. She once told me, “There’s a freedom in being bound. In the devil you know.” She says those early years with Chuck were alright. But how much better could those years have been if she’d been able to roam safely alone?
An omega reaching thirty-one still unmated was unheard of when Mom was a kid.
My life has been safe but small, limited in other ways—ways that the pack of pills in the paper bag on the counter, flanked by the six foot long receipt of coupons from the pharmacy, can erase.
“Are you excited for your first day of work?” Mom asks, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“I’m trying not to think about it too much.” I regret putting the move off until the last possible second. I was reluctant to leave Pleasantwood, but now I’m wishing I had more time to adjust to the city before my first day of worktomorrow morning.
Nerves swirl in my gut. So much for not thinking about it.
It’s my first real job. First real apartment.
Grad school counts for something, but it’s not the same. It’s not… corporate. Being thrifty is a cherished asset in a graduate lab, but a liability at a corporation. Move fast, break things and all that.
I learned all this from the podcasts Mom’s been sending. They’re helping a bit—I’d rather worry now than be blindsided later.
But at this exact moment, ignorance is bliss, and I wish Icould enjoy these last few hours together.
Last few hours? I’m sounding like Mom has terminal cancer, not like I’m moving two hours away. I’ll call her tomorrow and see her in two weeks, if not sooner.
Fuck, she was right. Idoneed to get out of the house.
The takeout arrives, and it smells amazing. Tastes even better. That’s it—focus on the food. I get the TV hooked up so we can watch Home Wreck Fixer as we eat and chat, like any other night.
Until Mom gets up, stretches, and says she should be heading home, limping subtly.
“Mom, are you sure you’re okay to drive? It’s kinda late.” We’d gotten up early, hit the furniture store on the way into the city, moved all my shit, and assembled half the furniture. A ridiculously ambitious plan, but one we’d actually managed to pull off. Wait, I forgot groceries. Shit. At least there’ll be leftover takeout.
“I’m sure,” she says with finality, crushing my as-of-yet unacknowledged dream that she might crash on the couch and send me off in the morning. What am I, a kindergartner?
