Page 82 of A Dangerous Kind of Love

“It’s new,” I say. “I couldn’t wait for you to meet him.”

I don’t overthink it. It’s true. That’s enough.

“Well,” Mom says, already moving on. “Let’s sit down.”

Nina pushes herself up from the recliner.

“I’m going to get out of your way,” she says, looking at me. “Good to see you, Katie.”

“Yeah. You too, Nina.”

Nina’s older. This place fits her in a way it doesn’t fit my mom, but she’s all there. She knows exactly who I am every time I walk in, and she sticks around. Even when my mom doesn’t remember her, Nina doesn’t leave. She sits with her, listens, and keeps her company through it. On these days, she gets something back.

I settle next to Mom on the bed. Michael sits in the recliner across from us.

“So,” she says, looking at him. “You and Katie. How long has this been going on?”

“Only a few weeks,” I cut in.

It’s a lie.

“That’s nice,” she says, but her eyes stay on him.

“What is it, Mom?” I ask.

She turns Michael. “How old are you?”

Michael doesn’t hesitate. “Thirty-six, ma’am.”

Her attention snaps to me. “But Katie, you’re only eighteen.”

Oh.

One second I’m sitting here, and the next the floor shifts under me. I swallow hard, forcing it down.

“No, Mom,” I say, carefully. “I’m twenty-four. Remember?”

Her eyes widen for a second, and she nods, clicking back into place.

“Oh yes. Of course,” she says. Then she turns to Michael. “Call me Beth.”

He nods. “Yes, ma’am.”

She smiles, and he smiles back.

For the rest of the visit, it’s there in every little thing. Mom asks me what I’ve been up to, and ten minutes later asks again. She tells Michael a story about when I was in high school—laughing, animated, getting the details right—and halfway through she stops, frowns, and looks at me as if she’s trying to figure out how that version of me connects to the one sitting next to her now.

I keep my face the same. I answer everything. I fill in the gaps she doesn’t realize are there. When she loses a word, I give it to her. When she skips something, I smooth it over. I tell myself if I stay ahead of it, it won’t feel as obvious.

Michael carries the rest. He answers her questions about work, about where he’s from, and about how we met. When he tells her he’s a CEO, her hand tightens around mine. She’s so proud. She thinks I brought home something impressive.

We eat lunch in the dining room. She insists I try something off her plate, even though I’ve had it a hundred times. I take a bite anyway. She watches me, and when I tell her it’s good, she smiles.

In the common room, we sit through a movie. She leans into me halfway through, her head resting against my shoulder, and I go still for a second before letting myself relax into it. I don’t watch the screen. I watch her hands instead. The way she fidgets with the edge of her sleeve. The way she taps her fingers against her leg during quiet parts.

Outside, by the pond, she points out the same duck three times. I react the same way every time.

Michael hangs back a few steps, letting us walk ahead. I don’t look at him, but I’m aware of him the entire time. Of the space he’s giving me. Of the fact that he doesn’t interrupt and doesn’t step in unless I need him to. By the time we get back to her room, my head is pounding.