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She grins. “Yes, but never with afiancée. I still can’t believe my baby’s engaged.”
“Call mebabyone more time. See what happens.”
Mom only laughs. I duck into the tiny half-bath tucked under the stairs, the one where the top of my hair brushes the ceiling. I give myself a last look in the mirror, smoothing a hand down the front of my blue button-down shirt, one Mom said brings out my eyes.
And yes—I asked my mom what to wear on this date with Bailey. She has good taste.
“What is it?” she asks, locking eyes with me in the mirror.
There’s a crease between her brows—partly worry but also partly pain. When I got home from The Summit this afternoon, Mom was still in pajamas, a heating pad and a bottle of pain relievers on the coffee table. I should carry her back to the couch, tuck her in, stay home, and let her pick a cheesy romance movie. That’s become our thing on days she’s feeling low, whether from joint pain or the exhaustion stemming from fibromyalgia.
But I know she wouldn’t let me skip a date. And I really don’t want to. Even if I’m feeling unsteady after my conversation with Parker.
“Eliander,” she says, propping her hands on her hips. “What is it?”
“I’m nervous,” I admit, not realizing justhownervous until I say it out loud. I turn away from my reflection.
Mom cups my cheek in one hand. “She already said yes, sweetheart. I don’t think there’s any reason to be nervous.” She grins. “But it’s adorable that you are.”
“Doesn’tfeeladorable,” I mutter, tilting my head so I don’t have to meet her gaze.
But Mom takes my face in both of her hands now, basically corralling me into an intense staring contest. I blink first.
“You are someone who emotes with every fiber of your being. Always have. Most little boys buried their feelings—especially their tears. Not you.” Her smile is gentle. “You were a tempest of emotions and didn’t start to hide them until you were a teenager. Even then, you still cared deeply and left more out on the surface than most.”
It's true. And as I realized while talking to Parker, my big feelings have been an issue in my relationships. “I don’t want to be … too much.”
Mom gives my cheeks a rough pat. Not quite, but almost a slap like you’d give someone you’re trying to wake from a drunken stupor.
“Be in your feels, son. If you’re nervous, well, that just shows how much you care about Bailey.”
That—and it’s also related to the fact that I’m going on a date with a woman I legitimately like who is also my fiancée and who also doesn’t know I really like her. Also, I’m still getting to know her. I’ve done a whole lot of unintended recon while hangingout with her and the dogs over the past few months, but that’s barely scratching the surface of who Bailey is.
File this under: it’s complicated.
I’m about to walk out the door when Mom calls my name. Myactualname. I turn, and she gives me a wide, warm smile. “One more thing—you will never be too much for the right woman. You’ll be exactly enough.”
CHAPTER 14
Bailey
“How was your day?”I ask Gran.
She snorts instead of answering, then pats the side of her wig. Today it’s the Dolly9 to 5wig, which makes her head look like a curly blond Q-tip.
I straighten the blanket at the end of her bed, needing something to do since Gran’s not in a talkative mood. Mom crocheted this blanket—her only attempt before giving up on the hobby altogether. It’s ugly and poorly constructed and almost unraveling. But when I packed up their house, I couldn’t bear to throw it out, so I brought it here. Gran seems to like it. Or, at least, she hasn’t tried to stuff it in the trash or set it on fire, so that’s something.
I trace one of the too-big gaps with one finger, missing Mom and Dad with a sudden and severe ache. I wish they were here to discuss all of this with me—Eli, the proposal, our upcoming date tonight. Of course, if they were here, I wouldn’t be considering a marriage proposal for the sake of money. They also never werethe greatest at dispensing advice. Or being interested in the details of my life.
I’ve found one of the hardest things about losing people you care about is the guilt of remembering the things they weren’t so great at. Thinking about their flaws and disappointments makes me feel like a traitor. I’d love to picture Mom sitting down with me over coffee to talk about Eli, but it’s hard. Because we never did that. Not because she didn’t care, but more because we didn’t have that kind of relationship ever. And had she lived, I’m not sure we ever would.
The thing is—I’ll never know.
For this reason, I keep pushing with Gran. When I start to sit down on her bed, she waves me away with the television remote, a look on her face like I’m carrying cooties.
I thought maybe she’d notice or ask about the giant ring on my finger. The one I can’t stop looking at or touching, spinning it around and around when I’m thinking. I’m surprised Gran didn’t complain about it blinding her. It’sthatbig. Way bigger than Eli needed to get for our situation, or what I’d ever ask for, but the classic round diamond in a platinum band is beautiful.
Gran is too distracted to notice my ring becauseThe Bachelorseason ten thousand is on. A rerun, I’m guessing, since it’s not even six o’clock yet. Gran is a hardcore member of Bachelor Nation. She’s seen every episode of every season, plus watchesBachelor in ParadiseorBachelor IslandorBachelor in Spaceor whatever spin-offs the network vomits up.
