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Despite her small frame, my mother is anything but frail. It remains a wonder how she possesses so much energy to keep up with household chores, taking care of her garden, socializing with the neighbors, and multiple volunteer gigs. Even when she was working, she still found ways to keep busy. Now that she’s retired, that much hasn’t changed.
“Wow. You didn’t hold back.” I gather a handful of limes in my hands to deposit into my empty fruit bowl. At least it won’t be empty for much longer.
“I figured this should keep you stocked for a while since you said you were running low,” she says. “The tomatoes should be ripe in a day or two. Don’t let them rot—you’re not gonna want to miss out on those. I won’t be able to grow them for much longer.” Homegrown tomatoes cannot be beat. During the summers growing up, I’d eat them by themselves with a dash of salt. They truly put those watery grocery store tomatoes to shame.
“Believe me, I won’t.”
“Bueno.” She nods as she shuts off the water. Her black hair is cut short, but still long enough for thick, shiny curls to form. There isn’t a trace of gray, which means she must’ve gone to the salon recently. I follow her into the living room, where she begins folding a pink blanket thrown haphazardly on the couch. “Was Angela over last night?”
My face heats as I studiously avoid her gaze. I may be a grown woman, but my mother will never see me as anything other than her little girl. The urge to reach out and grab the blanket Theo used not too long ago from her hands is overwhelming, but I curl my fingers into loose fists to quell it.
“Mm-hmm.” I give a noncommittal nod. “And Ben’s coming over a little later to catch up.”
“Ah.” She sets the neatly folded blanket down. “How’s he been?”
“Good,” I say. “He’s engaged now, so… there’s that.” Good lord. So. There’s that. Could I sound any more monotone?
Thankfully, my mom doesn’t pick up on it. She exclaims in excitement and asks me to pass on her well wishes. I tell her I will, nodding mechanically until we’ve moved on from the subject. Unfortunately for me, she moves the conversation into dangerous territory.
“You haven’t told me about anyone new in a while. Are you still on those apps?” she asks idly, but I’m not buying her nonchalant tone. Though she’s never pressured me into settling down with the next available man now that I have an established career, I still get twitchy talking about my dating life with her. The pink blanket is neatly folded beside her, a guilty pastel reminder of this morning.
“I am, but they’re kinda useless.” I try for a shrug, but my shoulders are tense. “I’m taking a break from dating. Possibly indefinitely.”
She bursts out in a laugh that puts me on the defensive.
“Why is that funny?” I ask. “You didn’t date anyone after dad and you’re perfectly happy, right?”
“You’re too young to be giving up so soon.” She shakes her head fondly, ignoring my question. It was rhetorical, anyway. I know how happy she is now, and what it took for her to get here. “The last boy you were really excited about was Ben, and that was years ago.”
I still cringe over the memory of telling her all about him when we first started going out. She was the first person I called after he asked me out, excited about my first official date. Of course, that excitement quickly ebbed when she lectured me to focus more on school and less on boys. Now I wish she’d keep that up and tell me to focus more on work and less on dating. Plus, it’s embarrassing that she knows how much I liked him back then when we didn’t work out.
“I wish you felt like you could be honest with me.” For a moment, it feels like the air in my apartment stills. I hold in a breath and stare at her, waiting for the bomb to drop. “It’s okay for relationships to fail. You can talk to me. I want to know about your life. Don’t wait until you’re engaged to tell me you’ve been seeing someone. Okay?”
I breathe a sigh of relief that she didn’t say what I thought she would, though I’m not sure I like how close to the truth she is. This isn’t the first time she’s brought up Ben as the last guy I told her about by name. Maybe she’s right and I should’ve told her about the ones who came after him, even if they all flopped right at the start. At least then, Ben wouldn’t be the only guy she knows I’ve dated.
“That doesn’t sound like a bad idea, actually.” I tap a finger on my chin. “Though maybe I’ll wait until after the wedding, just to be safe.”
“Don’t be mensa!” She slaps my hand, tsking under her breath at me. A wave of nostalgia washes over me at her favorite nickname for me when I was younger. Still, mensa is loads better in my book than gorda. It took a lot for my mom to finally let go of that one, even more to convince her she was being more demeaning than affectionate. “I’m serious.”
“I know you are.” I let out a sigh. “There’s just not much to say. I haven’t been in anything close to a serious relationship in years. Ever, maybe.”
She gives me a disbelieving look at first, but when my expression doesn’t change, she looks at me as if in a new light. She stares for a beat, and then finally asks, “Why not?”
I’m not sure how to answer her. Between unrequited feelings for Ben and my ambivalence toward dating, I don’t have a good answer. But I know those are just excuses. The truth—that I’m terrified of having a relationship end the same way hers did—is too painful to admit. The last thing I want to do is hurt her, so instead, I dodge the question by glancing at the clock and proclaiming the time. She bursts up from the couch when she realizes she’s late for meeting one of her neighbors.
She leaves thirty minutes before Ben is due to show up. I spend the time to myself practicing ways to share the news in a way that conveys the excitement I should feel, just in case.
Ben’s engaged! Isn’t that swell?
Yup, he’s voluntarily shackling the ol’ ball and chain to himself. I’m just as unsurprised as you are.
I always knew Ben and Alice would make it.
Always? No. It was more of a gradual knowledge that came with each passing year. With each monumental new step forward in their relationship. If I’m being honest with myself, an engagement was inevitable. The final step forward before tying themselves together forever. They may not have always been headed to marriage, but it’s always been the final stop. It’s only now that the final stop is within sight.
Ben arrives outside my door at seven on the dot. He’s got a six-pack of Angry Orchard under one arm, which I take from him when he crosses the threshold. We settle down on the couch, and I try to think of the last time Ben came over to my place. Almost a year ago, maybe? We watched a movie on Netflix, and he gave me relationship advice after I caught a guy I was dating texting his ex. Funny how, to Ben, it was a definite red flag, but when we eventually did break up, it wasn’t because of his ex. It was because of mine. The irony wasn’t lost on me, but it’s always been lost on Ben.
“So, Alice told me she saw you yesterday,” he says. “At Havana Bar with my brother.”
