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"What does that mean?"

"It means we haven't talked about it."

"Well, don't you think you should?"

"Probably."

"Before she leaves?"

"That would make sense."

She sighed, "Are you being deliberately difficult?"

"Only because I'm naturally gifted at it."

She sighed. Then she did something worse than being nosey. She softened. "Oh, Mijo."

I winced. "No."

"What?"

"Don't 'oh, Mijo' me."

She smiled sadly. "You're in trouble."

"Been hearing that since kindergarten."

"Not this kind."

I looked away. Because that was the thing about mothers. Sometimes they knew. Even when you hadn't said a damn word.

She squeezed my arm. "She's pretty great."

"Yeah," I said quietly. "She is."

"And she cares about you."

I wanted to believe that. But Mikayla was a woman who made plans. She had contingencies for her contingencies. She probably scheduled her spontaneous moments three weeks in advance.

And I wasn't part of her plan. I'd been a solution to a problem. A temporary boyfriend. A convenient cowboy.

I knew how to be those things. I wasn't sure I knew how to be anything else.

Mom patted my cheek. "Talk to her, sweetheart."

Then she headed for the door. "Also, your tie is crooked."

"I haven't put it on yet."

"Well, when you do, it'll be crooked." She disappeared down the hall.

I stared after her. "Love you too, Mom."

"Love you more!" she called back.

I shook my head. Then checked my phone. Again. Nothing.

Great. I was officially turning into a teenage girl waiting for her crush to text. A knock sounded on the open door.