33
BEX
I’m kind of in love with James’ mother.
When I walked downstairs half an hour ago, the house was quiet. Even in such a big space, I could tell that James and his siblings weren’t around. I tiptoed to the kitchen anyway, hoping to find some coffee, and ran into Sandra instead.
She made me pour-over and insisted on us eating cookies for breakfast. What an icon.
Now she leans back in her chair, bare feet tucked underneath her, and takes another sip of coffee as she looks at me. I have the sense some sort of interrogation is coming. The first and only time I met Darryl’s parents, his mother immediately asked how many children I was planning to have. Sandra could say practically anything and would instantly be better than her.
“You’re wearing my son’s sweater,” she says.
I flush, looking down at myself. It’s just a gray McKee sweatshirt, but on me, it’s baggy and the sleeves flop over my hands. I roll them up, picking at a random thread. “His is cozy.”
She smiles. She has a kind face, natural in its age, with crow’s feet around her eyes that add extra softness to her smile. There’s nothing artificial about her. Even now, she’s just wearing a t-shirt that occurs to me might be Richard’s, and soft cotton pajama pants. Her tongue is stained blue from the frosting on the cookies. Her tortoiseshell glasses frame her face like a character from a Nora Ephron movie. This is the woman who has loved James throughout his whole life. Every win and every loss, every triumph and crisis. She was by his side through everything that went down with Sara.
“James has told me so much about you,” she says. “He was afraid of telling his father, but I make us have regular phone calls, and lately, they’ve been all about you.”
“You’re not making him,” I say honestly. “He’s always happier after you call.”
“You’ve been spending a lot of time together.”
I nod. Even though I have my dorm room, I’ve been spending more and more nights at James’ lately. As the semester was wrapping up, it just made sense—we had work to do for the writing class, and it’s not like I could go to the apartment to get a break from the dorm. Plus, he has a hang-up about me driving home alone late at night. I suspect it’s an excuse to keep me in his bed, but I don’t intend to ever call him out on it. It makes me too happy.
“I was worried, after Sara—he told me you know about Sara—that he would punish himself. What happened was horrible, but it wasn’t his fault. That’s not how a healthy person responds to a breakup.”
“No,” I agree softly. “She’s doing okay now though, right?”
“Yes. I still talk to her mother from time to time. She’s safe and finishing up her degree at a different school, close to her cousins.”
“That’s good.” I pick up my coffee mug, even though it’s nearly empty, and take a small sip.
“But tell me more about you. He says you’re a photographer?”
I tuck my hair behind my ear, looking at the Christmas tree instead of her. The den has another tree, one that I can recognize; it’s decorated with rainbow strings of lights and homemade ornaments from when James and his siblings were little. Last night, Sandra explained that they always do a formal family portrait with the tree in the foyer—it’s ended up in magazines before, usually alongside press for the foundation—but she likes the silly pictures they take in the den way better.
“Yeah,” I say. “I mean, it’s my hobby.”
“Oh,” she says. “That’s not what you’re studying?”
“Um, no. I’m going to be taking over my mother’s diner when I graduate.” I force myself to look at Sandra and smile. “It’s a cute little place not too far from McKee. We’ve got the best pie in the Hudson Valley.”
She considers that. “What’s the best flavor?”
It’s not the question I’m expecting. I smile for real. “Well, it’s famous for the cherry pie, but I’m partial to the lemon meringue.”
“You love it?”
“It’s where I grew up.”
“And it’s your dream?” She shakes her head as soon as she says that. “I’m sorry, I’m prying. It just fascinates me, what passions people have. Of course, in my family, my boys all have the same passion.”
“You must be so excited for James to go into the NFL,” I say, grasping at the weak opportunity for a conversation change.
“Excited? Yes. Terrified? Also yes. I watched my husband get knocked down routinely by men built like freight trains for seventeen years. It’s not for the faint of heart, Bex.”
“At least they don’t usually fight like they do in NHL hockey.”
“Don’t even get me started,” she says, shaking her head. “This is why Izzy is my favorite. Volleyball doesn’t usually involve flying fists, thank goodness.” She winks. “Don’t tell the kids I said that.”
“I’m sure Izzy would rub it in their faces for years to come.”
“You’re starting to get how our family works.” She sets her coffee cup aside. “I can see my son cares about you. A lot. And I know you’re probably going to think this is weird, but thank you for that. He deserves to have someone in his corner. He’s so serious all the time—he was that way even as a boy. Always following the rules, always giving everything his all. But when he looks at you… his whole face lights up and he just relaxes. It’s beautiful.”
She stands up, gathering up her mug and mine, and cups my cheek. “And I may not know you all that well yet, but that’s what I see when you look at him.”
She goes into the kitchen, leaving me alone with the Christmas tree, presents overflowing from underneath. The fireplace crackles; she lit a fire as soon as we walked in earlier. Can she really see that when she looks at me, or is she just imagining it?
My feelings for James have gotten so deep. It’s like I was swimming in the shallows for a long time, and now suddenly I’m realizing I’m nowhere near the shoreline. He leaves me breathless. Every time he calls me “princess,” my heart does a silly little somersault. He’s cheesy, he’s romantic. Maybe he is the kind of person who follows the rules, but he bent them when we made our deal, and I have the sense he never looked back.
I hear James’ laughter. He bursts into the den along with his brothers, his eyes lighting up as soon as he spots me. When he ducks to kiss me, I push him away; he’s sweaty and cold all at once. He manages to press a kiss to the top of my head, grinning as I swat at him.
“Sorry I had to leave you,” he says.
“You know I don’t mind. Unless you make me tag along. Then we’d have a problem.”
He crouches, so we’re eye to eye, and raises one of his eyebrows. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say, voice breathier than I intend. Before him, I’d tell you sweat was gross, but now? I kind of want to lick the bead that’s trailing down the side of his face.
And by the way he’s looking at me, he knows what I’m thinking. Clearly, I’m nowhere near as cool and collected as I’d like to be.