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Enzo invited me to come to breakfast with his family this morning, but I know he doesn’t get to spend much time with them. I didn’t want to interfere, so I skipped breakfast with the DeLucas. But he promised to stop by on his way to the lab, and I can’t sit still while I wait for him to show.
Mom took the day off to go skiing with the new beau. Which is weird in that we’re not much of a skiing family. We tried a few times at a local ski resort when Devon and I were kids, but neither of us took to it. I hated the cold, and Devon broke his arm on, like, his third run, so that was pretty much that. Mom told me that she used to ski, before us, and apparently she wants to take it up again.
I’m glad she found people she can trust to work in the shop. She deserves a day off. But I’m still a bit unsettled about the new guy.
I pick a piece of bacon off a serving plate in the kitchen. It’s sat there for a while, but I’m full of nervous energy.
“You missed Devon earlier,” Mom says, loading the dishwasher. “While you were in the shower.”
I finish the bacon, moving to help my mom.
“Yeah, he texted after he left to tell me he’d stopped by.” I pause. “Did he say anything else? About Enzo?”
Mom shakes her head. “Not really. But you know him.”
Devon isn’t always the most forthcoming when it comes to things like feelings.
“He seemed OK with it,” I press.
She takes out a dish I loaded and rerinses it.
“I think so too. Maybe just a little worried.”
“About?” I say, my tone a little harsh.
Mom continues to load up the dishwasher, as if we’re discussing something as inconsequential as the weather.
“Enzo always was kind of . . .” She hesitates.
Please don’t say something bad about him, Mom.
“. . . intense.”
“Meaning?”
“Just seems unlikely he’ll be ready to settle down anytime soon. With all he has going on.”
“He kind of owns a multibillion-dollar company that’s about to go worldwide. So yeah, I’d agree with that.”
Then comes the look.
“Mom, we’re not getting married. I don’t even know if we’re, like, boyfriend and girlfriend.”
“I would say going to Europe on a date qualifies you as boyfriend and girlfriend.”
Maybe.
“I like him,” she says, “Always have. But I’m not sure if he makes good boyfriend material, that’s all.”
She closes the dishwasher and blows out the candle in the center of the table. Mom loves her scented candles and goes through like two a week.
“But you’re a big girl and can handle yourself. Of that I have no doubt.”
My shoulders straighten. “Thanks, Mom.”
There’s something else I’ve been meaning to talk to her about, and I figure now’s as good a time as any.
“So, speaking of boyfriends . . .”
