Page 106 of Pretend To Be Mine

“He always wanted to be a chef. Even as a kid, he’d be in the kitchen creating these elaborate meals. Made a complete disaster every time, used every pot, every pan, every utensil we owned. Making French toast somehow required seventeen different implements and forty-five minutes of cleanup.”

Adrian laughed.

“But the food was always good. His catering business is doing really well.” I took a sip of wine and looked around the dining room at the diners.

“My mom loves talking to all her friends about her talented son the chef. Shows them pictures of his food, brings samples to church functions, goes on and on about his creativity.”

“But not your dresses,” Adrian said quietly.

“Never my dresses.” I looked down at my plate. “She’s never mentioned them to anyone. Never shown photos. When people ask what I do, she says I’m ‘between jobs’ or ‘figuring things out.’”

“That’s—” Adrian stopped himself, visibly biting back whatever harsh thing he wanted to say about my mother. “That must hurt.”

“It does. But that’s just how she is. Chris’s dreams are acceptable. Mine aren’t.” I forced brightness into my voice. “But hey, at least I have one family member who supports me, right?”

“You have me,” Adrian said. “I support you.”

“Thank you.”

The main course arrived and all thoughts of my negative mother evaporated. The smell was amazing. I took the first bite and nearly orgasmed. It was beef that melted on the tongue, vegetables that had been transformed into something ethereal. We ate and traded more stories, lighter ones. Adrian told me about Sebastian’s brief stint as a “serious artist” when he was nineteen, locking himself in a studio apartment for three months to paint, only to emerge with exactly one completed canvas.

“What was it of?” I asked.

“A banana. Just a banana. Eight feet tall.”

I nearly choked on my wine. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was.” Adrian shook his head. “My brother is many things, but an artist is not one of them.”

I told him about the time Chris tried to make baked Alaska for my sixteenth birthday and somehow set off the smoke alarm three times, until the fire department showed up and made him promise to never use a kitchen torch again.

“Did he stop?”

“Of course not. He just got better at it.” I smiled at the memory. “The Alaska was delicious though. Worth the minor property damage.”

Dessert came, something chocolate and intricate that I couldn’t begin to name. As I took my first bite, Adrian went quiet, studying me across the table.

“What?” I asked.

“I’ve been thinking about the dresses. The ones you’re making with Annika.”

My stomach tightened. “What about them?”

“Are you going to tell your mother? Show her what you’ve created?”

I exhaled and slowly shook my head. “I don’t know. Part of me wants to. I want her to see what I can do when I’m actually being myself instead of trying to please her.” I paused. “But after this morning and that phone call? I’m worried it’ll make things worse. Maybe I should just let her cool off. Not give her a stroke by showing her dresses that are definitely not church approved.”

“It’s your choice. Your relationship with your mother, your boundaries. Those are yours to set. But if you want to make anything worthwhile in this industry, you’re going to have to get past needing her approval.”

“I know.”

“But you’re still that little girl making dresses and hoping your mom will love them.”

I’m not going to cry. My makeup is perfect. And I refuse to shed another tear. I simply nodded and took another bite of the chocolate.

“I get it. I do. Even now, a year after Dad died, I still catch myself wanting his approval. Wanting to know if I’m doing the right thing, making the right choices.”

“How do you get past it?”