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“I’ll make more coffee,” Mom says. “And chocolate chip pancakes! Plus eggs so you can have your protein.”
Most mornings, I make breakfast for us both, leaving hers in the fridge if she’s still in bed. But on days where she has energy and the pain is more of a low hum than a loud roar, as she describes it, Mom likes to do as many normal things as possible.
“And bacon?” I ask.
If I’m about to tell the biggest lie of my entire life to the person in it who means the most, I’d at least like to do so with bacon. Also, the more cooking she’s doing, the more likely her full focus and attention won’t be on my face, where she might be able to read the lies flashing like numbers on a scoreboard.
“And bacon,” she promises.
“Sold.”
Half an hour later, I’m finishing the last of the chocolate chip pancakes, bacon long gone, feeling overstuffed and also overly pleased at the way I was able to convincingly pull this off. Somehow, I don’t even have the shroud of guilt for lying I felt sure would be hanging over me. It hardly felt like a lie.
Mom bought every word of the story I spun about going to the animal shelter so often because of Bailey. About keeping it on the downlow because I wanted to be sure before I brought her home. I even said things were moving quickly, though I didn’t quite have the bravery to define exactlyhowquickly. I probably need to talk with Bailey about details before I announce my plans to propose.
And I already have plans.
“I knew there was a reason besides dogs you were always going to the shelter,” she says. “And why you didn’t want me to go with you. Though it took entirely too long for you to bring Bailey home. I love her.”
I grin. “Good. I’m not surprised the two of you hit it off.”
Despite being mildly horrified by the lengths Mom went to last night to meet a woman she suspected I was on a date with, I loved seeing the way Mom embraced Bailey. And the way Bailey didn’t run screaming from the house or hide in a corner when she had to deal with meeting not only my mom but also the whole book club.
“Of course we did. How could I not love anyone who loves you?”
I open my mouth to argue about her use of the word love, then realize I’m going to need her to believe I love Bailey. I’m going to have to get used to saying it, to thinking it. Even if it’s not the exact truth.
I enjoy Bailey. Nuh-uh. IloveBailey.
I care about Bailey. Nope. Iloveher.
I like Bailey. No. IloveBailey.
I’m sure I’ll get used to it after a while. As I take our plates to the sink and start to wash up—thanks to Mom, I’m a firm believer in the adage that whoever doesn’t cook, cleans—I consider how longa whileis.
Is there a certain length of time we’ll need to stay married for legality’s sake?
What if I get traded to another team?
What about when she starts vet school? It’s not guaranteed she’ll go somewhere nearby.
Will I still need to at some point go back to Canada and handle the P-1 visa stuff, or would the marriage cover it?
I’m not sure who to even ask these questions to. Certainly not Grant. Gracie, Felix’s girlfriend, had a lawyer friend who visited recently. Maybe I could ask her. She’s probably someone I could trust but is far enough removed from my life and the Appies that it would feel a little safer.
“Is Bailey coming to your game this week?” Mom asks. “So I won’t have to sit alone?”
My game this week—right. More of my focus and attention definitely needs to shift to hockey or I’ll never shake the Speed Bump nickname.
“I’ll ask her,” I say, an idea taking shape in my mind.
No matter how many times I tell her to stay home, Mom comes to every game. Usually alone, stuck jammed between two drunk strangers. At our last home game, I remember waving up at her, my smile slipping into a frown as I took in the way she was hunched over to avoid the man next to her in his Appies foam hat—shaped like the tiny mountain range on our logo—who was waving, of all things, a set of maracas with wild abandon.
Mom’s smile was big, but the next day, she stayed in bed late, complained of a headache, which turned into a two-day-long migraine. Her book club friends, despite being very avid fans of hockeyplayers—particularly the calendars from years past featuring my teammates shirtless—rarely want to go to agame. Too much noise. Too many jostling bodies. Just … too much.
I might have to pull some strings with someone in the office to get a group of seats, but I bet Parker would be willing to work her magic. Especially once I tell herwhyI need tickets.
The game would be the perfect—and very public—place to propose to Bailey. Perfectbecauseit’s so public. I don’t want there to be any question about the marriage, no chance for the wordfraudto even be whispered on the wind. And maybe the best way to preempt any accusations is to make things as big as possible.
