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*
As soon as I rounded a few corners I was off my bike, washing my wounds with the remnants of my water bottle and fixing my knuckles with four plasters. Yes, I am a plaster-carrier – as it happens, a danger-prone girl like me can never be too anal.
I throw my bag in my room and I look out of the window. It’s pitch black except for the street lamp, completely obscuring the view of the house in front of me.
Good.
I meet my mom in the kitchen as she’s putting potatoes in the oven. When I go to wash my hands so that I can start making the salad she notices my hand and sucks in a breath.
“Jesus, what happened?” She asks. Then, “Did you spray perfume on it?”
Perfume on a wound is our home’s answer to disinfecting injuries. I don’t think my mom has taken me to a hospital since I bust my lip at the age of seven. She’s made me very DIY.
I completely omit telling her about the incident with Tate’s truck. I never want to think about it again, purely because I never want to think abouthimagain. I skirt around the subject and tell her that I’ll give it a spritz later.
Once our dinner is ready we sit down at the table, café jazz playing softly from my laptop on the counter.
“So this Friday,” she starts, and my stomach sloshes with unease because we don’t usually have plans. I do school. She does work. That’s the routine. My mom is a professor at the college campus that’s a twenty minute drive from here and, as her miniature, it’s the same vision that she’s been grooming into me since before I was born. Work hard, stay in a regimented system, and you’ll always be protected. Bonus points if yousecure a fortune from an Ivy League billionaire – if not, revel in your chastity, daughter, ’cause that’s what mama wants.
All the more reason why I don’t mention Tate. My mom has literally no idea what went down between us – hell, I don’t think she even knew that heexisted– and he definitely doesn’t prescribe to the future she’s mapped out for me.
If only he didn’t prescribe to the secret future I had mapped out formyself.
“I want you to meet him,” she finishes.
Okay, I may be a killjoy in my own life but I’m not about to screw up my mom’s new secret boyfriend situation. He’s been taking her out for dinner, and walks, and more dinner every weekend for three months straight, and I’ve never even met the guy. I don’t stalk-watch them from my bedroom window as they disappear from the driveway. I don’t look out of my window full-stop.
“I want to meet him,” I agree with a nod, although my tone sounds a little offended because I hate the fact that she’s thinking that I would put an obstacle in the way of her happiness. “What time is he coming over?”
“Hmm,” she says, her mouth suspiciously full of my sliced-to-perfection lettuce. I narrow my eyes on her and stop her wrist when she goes for another forkful.
“Hmm?” I inquire.
“We’re going to his place,” she says quickly, and then she rams in the forkful that I was preventing, smug with speed.
I can handle this, I can handle this. I don’t want to embarrass her by being her untrusting hermit daughter so I say, “That sounds lovely,” even though I think that she just triggered my IBS.
“I hope so,” she says, her eyes trained on a potato. “Wear something nice, please,” she adds.
My stomach sinks a little.
“Yes mom,” I murmur, and I shut up for the night, my chest constricting tightly.
*
“That’s the house,” my mom says, pointing.
It’s the same as all of the others. Cute porch. Clean lawn. Only this one also has a hot tan lumberjack smiling at us from the garage entryway.
My mouth falls open but I quickly snap it shut in case he can see us as visibly as we can see him. No way am I going to inflate his ego.
He’s over six foot, and I mean he iswellover six foot. His skin is so tan that it leaves no doubt in my mind that he must work outdoors. From the stretch of his shirt I can tell that he’s ripped. The only negative thing about right now is the fact that he’s wearing a shirtat all.
I spin a full ninety degrees in my seat to face my mom. “That’s him?”
Her mouth tilts up into a little self-satisfied smile as she manoeuvres into the driveway. I can’t help but notice the fact that the drive is empty, meaning that this man purposefully movedhisride so that his girlfriend’s would have an easy fit. My heart squeezes.
I mean, I’m practically jealous. From one look at this guy-slash-god I can tell that he is everything my mom has ever told me to stay away from. I’m being presumptuous but the initial vibe that I’m getting is: outdoorsy; wears a suit no more than once every three years; and owns a cowboy hat un-ironically. Why can’t I have one?
