Page 54
I’m pouring coffee when I hear her.
“Ruby! Sweetheart!”
Mom. Of course Mom is here. Mom who wakes up at dawn regardless of time zone, who considers breakfast the most important meal and also the most important interrogation opportunity.
She’s at a corner table with a plate of fruit and a cup of tea, wearing a blouse I haven’t seen before, and she looks rested and happy and completely, terrifyingly ready to have a conversation.
“Come sit with me.” She pats the chair next to her. “Where’s Aiden?”
“Upstairs. He’s, uh, still sleeping.”
“He likes to sleep in, huh?”
“Yeah.” I sit down with my coffee because refusing would generate more questions than complying. “How’d you sleep?”
“Wonderfully. The beds are divine.” She sips her tea, eyes me over the rim. “How did you sleep?”
“Fine.”
“Just fine?”
“Great. I slept great.”
“In the same room as your handsome boyfriend?”
“Mom.”
“I’m not implying anything! I’m observing. You look rested. You haven’t looked rested in months.” She reaches over and touches my cheek—a Karen gesture, automatic, boundary-free. “You’re glowing, Ruby.”
“I’m not glowing. I haven’t put on makeup yet.”
“You’re glowing. It’s Aiden.” She says his name with the satisfied certainty of a woman who has been right about something and wants credit. “He’s good for you. I can see it. You’re different around him.”
“Different how?”
“Lighter. Softer. You actually smiled at the rehearsal dinner—a real smile, not the one you’ve been performing for eight months. Don’t think I haven’t noticed, sweetheart.”
“He’s—” I wrap my hands around the coffee mug. “Yeah, Mom. He’s good for me.”
“Your father would have liked him.” She says it simply, the way she drops my dad into conversations—not dramatically, not with visible grief, just with the steady, permanent ache of a woman who carries her husband’s absence like a coat she never takes off. “He would have liked how quiet Aiden is. Your father always said the loud ones are performing. The quiet ones are paying attention.”
My throat tightens. “Yeah. Dad would’ve liked him.”
“Is it serious?”
“Mom—”
“I’m asking as your mother. Not to pressure you. I just want to know if this man who looks at you like you’re the center of the universe is going to be around for a while, because I’m getting attached and I’d like to prepare accordingly.”
I look at her—this woman who drives me crazy, who has no boundaries, who maintains a Google doc of eligible men and signs her texts, who loved my father with everything she had and has spent six years trying to make sure I find the same thing. She’s not asking to be nosy. She’s asking because she’s scared. Scared that I’ll settle again. Scared that I’ll end up alone in a bakery that’s barely scraping by. Scared that the glow she’s finally seeing will go away.
“Yeah, Mom,” I say quietly. “He’s going to be around.”
Her eyes fill. She blinks fast, reaches for her napkin, presses it to her nose. “Good,” she says thickly. “That’s good. Now eat something. You’re too thin.”
“I’m not—”
“The croissants are excellent. Take two. One for Aiden.”
