“And how am I supposed to do that?” he said, his temper finally slipping the leash a little bit. “I’ve done everything but put up a billboard saying ‘I don’t care that my brother married my ex-girlfriend’ for nearly twenty years! How will me being at the wedding change what countless family gatherings hasn’t?”
“Yes, but you’ve never had a date or girlfriend since Sheryl,” she pointed out. “So you’re going to go to the wedding. And you’re going to bring a date.”
He wanted to shout. He wanted to punch a hole in the drywall.
He did neither.
Then his mother smiled, and he immediately braced for impact, because it was one of her crafty smiles. The one that usually preceded a gut punch.
“Of course, you should be done fixing my car by then,” she said, drawing out each syllable. “I could always drive. All the way to Idaho. In the snow, in December,” she said, her voice sly. “Or you could drive me.”
She knew, or at least strongly suspected, what he was doing with the car. Damn it. “Mom, you shouldn’t be driving,” he finally said.
“I am a grown woman, and I am fine . . .”
“Remember when you passed out?” he asked. “And fell? Right here, in the kitchen.”
She scowled. “Are you going to stop throwing that in my face?”
“Imagine passing out at the wheel,” he continued relentlessly. “At least it’s a good car, so you wouldn’t necessarily get crumpled like a tin can. But let’s say you plow into a crowd. Or hit someone in a parking lot. Or hit a bunch of kids. How are you going to feel then?”
“Don’t you do that,” she shot back. “That’s not going to happen.”
He took a deep breath. He should’ve known. She wasn’t ready to hear it, no matter how much she needed to hear it. And it wasn’t the only issue that they needed to discuss. His father had had a will, thankfully, but his mother didn’t, and there were things she needed to take care of—things that, as someone who’d spent his career taking care of elder patients, he knew would be best. Durable power of attorney. Living will. Decisions about medical care. Hell, what would they do if she couldn’t take care of herself anymore? She barely tolerated him in the house at this point.
“I’ll . . . drive you to the wedding,” he said, feeling outflanked.
She smiled. “And you’ll bring a date.”
“I’ll get a date,” he agreed, countermaneuvering, “if . . . you agree to talk to Davy and me about those issues you keep avoiding. Your driving. The paperwork stuff.” He paused for a beat. “Medical decisions, Mom. It’s important.”
She grimaced, and he wondered what he’d do next if she said no.
“Fine,” she finally grumbled, wiping up the spilled coffee with a napkin from the holder on the table. “Go, cook that steak-salad thing you’re talking about. And tell me you got a loaf of bread. I’m not one of those crazy keto people, you know.”
He felt his shoulders retreat from their pinched position by his ears. It was a small victory, but these days, he’d take the W where he could find it. All he had to do was go to his cousin’s wedding, and . . .
Find a date.
Crap.
CHAPTER 3
PRISONS ARE A GYMNASIUM
That night, after the Great Grocery Store Debacle, Maggie indulged in a bowl of instant ramen with Spam and soy sauce eggs and watched the first episode of a series that Mac had recommended. It was times like this that she missed California. She’d grown up in a small town, Mount Tonne, in Northern Cal. Still, it had been half an hour to Napa and not that much farther to Berkeley and San Francisco. Whenever she felt the urge, she could get real tonkotsu ramen, or Ethiopian food, or authentic chiles rellenos, and she had missed the convenience and diversity of cuisine since she moved to Eastern Washington. It had been easier when they’d lived on the west side, closer to Seattle, but once they moved to the Falls, those choices evaporated.
She did like food. Probably a little too well, especially toward the crumbling last few years of her marriage, when she had scrambled for the quickest legal endorphin sources possible. But the budding foodie she’d been in Napa had gotten squashed somewhere along the way. Her ex-husband, Trev, wasn’t really into what he called “fancy” food, and she’d found herself going along to get along.
Story of her marriage, really.
She glanced at her phone. When it was eight thirty, she dialed her son, Kit. She doubted he’d answer. It was eight o’clock on a Friday, after all. Honestly, he shouldn’t be answering . . .
“Hi, Mom,” he said, and she could hear the eye roll in his voice. “You okay?”
She winced. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” she said, hating that it was his first question. “Wanted to hear the same about you.”
“Yes, I have successfully survived my first two weeks of school.”
“I honestly didn’t think you’d pick up,” she admitted sheepishly. “I was going to leave a message.”
“You could’ve texted me.”
“I hate texting,” she answered, “and you know that.”
He snickered. “Okay, boomer.”
She huffed, but it was all for show. Then, suddenly, she froze as a thought hit her. “Oh, shit. Is your roomie there? Other people? Am I totally embarrassing you or seeming like one of those helicopter parents or making you look like some freak with mommy issues?”
He burst out laughing, even though that wasn’t her purpose at all. “You’re fine. My roomie went to a party, or to rush something, I don’t remember.”
Maggie fought her instinctive recoiling from the term “rush.” She didn’t understand Greek life at all, but then, she hadn’t rushed in her brief college experience in Berkeley. But maybe it was a good thing? Something Kit ought to pursue? “Why didn’t you go too?”
“Other than the fact that I wasn’t asked?” Kit replied, with a wry tone. “I don’t think that I’m the frat type. And I didn’t feel like going to somewhere random on campus, like a café or something. And certainly not a party where I don’t know anybody.”
She bit her lip. She wouldn’t, either, but she’d at least managed to make friends in college—sort of. “Yeah, but you will,” she said. “Anybody seem nice in your classes? Or maybe in your dorm? It takes a while. Just, you know, say hi, be personable. Make a friend.”
“Do you even know me?” he asked, with a chuckle.
“You hung out with Harrison every chance you got,” she protested. “And you were the one who went up to him, not the other way around.”
“I was eight,” Kit said, his voice dry as the Sahara. “It was before I hit puberty and became emo and antisocial. He was grandfathered in before the cutoff.”
She got up, pacing the kitchen. The TV was still on in the background, some cooking show, but the sound was muted. “I just don’t want you to be lonely,” she admitted. “You’re my kid. And yeah, I know I can be . . . overprotective . . .”
She scowled when his laughter exploded through the phone speaker. “You think?”