“Your father found a video.”
That was not a sentence I had ever expected to fear.
“What video?”
“You standing on a wall and announcing some kind of turtle emergency.”
Across the counter, Rosa covered her mouth.
“I was helping someone.”
“So I gathered.”
“Does Dad know who?”
“He thought Savannah Brooks was a news anchor.”
“That tracks.”
“He has since been educated.”
“By you?”
“By the internet. He has watched four interviews and one concert.”
“Why?”
“He says he is assessing character.”
I pictured my father sitting in his chair with a notebook, evaluating a Grammy-winning singer as though she had applied to repair the roof.
“What’s the verdict?”
“He thinks she interrupts people too much.”
“She does.”
“He also likes the song about the truck.”
“That narrows it down.”
Mom was quiet.
Then she asked, “Did you meet someone?”
The café noise seemed to recede.
I looked at the bracelet around my wrist.
“Yes.”
Her breath changed.
Not surprise exactly.
Care.
“Is it serious?”
