By accident, right then, I caught the way his plump bottom lip pressed against his teeth when he made the V in the word love.
“What do you love?” I asked, now suddenly aware of my own lip doing the same thing.
He glanced back with a vibe that felt positively affectionate. Then he said, “You’ve still got your roller skates on.”
Thirteen
THE NEXT NIGHT was Friday. The night of my synchronized caffeination event with Dr. Addison.
Also known as my first date with my future husband.
He wasn’t calling it a date. And neither was I—out loud.
But that was all for the loophole.
He’d be at Bean Street Coffee—just a short walk for him from his work—at six o’clock. And I would be there, too. It was a bad idea, for sure. But more important: What should I wear? Jeans and a top? Sneakers? Sandals? Or god forbid—heels?
I tried many outfit options and modeled them all for Peanut. We don’t need to get mathematical about it. Let’s just say I was very thorough.
In the end, I settled on a black wrap dress with white polka dots and a ruffled hem—with the mental caveat that if it was too fancy, I could always pop back up to my place and change.
Other than the historic nature of the First Date, there was one other notable thing about today. But I wasn’t sure if I was going to share it with Dr. Addison.
Today—March fourth—was my mother’s birthday.
And I always celebrated my mom’s birthday. Just the two of us. I’d tuck a flower behind my ear, the way she always used to, and I’d bake a cake from scratch, and I’d buy candles, and I’d sing happy birthday to her. And then I’d talk to her like she could hear me. Just out loud—alone in a room by myself. As if the birthdays of the dead were the one day of the year when they could tune in to the voices of their loved ones left behind like a radio frequency.
I’d tell her about my life—catch her up on all the nonsense and goings-on. Give her the Peanut update. Reminisce a bit about fun things we’d done together when she was alive. And then I’d always, always thank her for being my mother, and for being such a source of love and joy that I could still feel it all these years later, so long after she was gone.
That was no small feat on her part.
But it was also a choice on my part.
It was so tempting—even still—to feel bitter that I’d lost her so soon. I had to work to turn the other way: to remember to feel grateful that I’d had her at all.
I’d thank her, and then—yes—I’d cry … because happiness and sadness are always so tangled up. And then I’d put on a Cary Grant movie—and usually eat the birthday cake, sometimes digging straight in with a fork without even slicing it, until I conked out on the sofa.
It was quite the ritual.
I’d started out trying to feel happy. But in the end, I’d settled for grateful.
Which might be the better emotion, if I had to choose.
Anyway, the chances I’d be telling Oliver Addison, DVM, about any of this were pretty close to zero. He didn’t need to do a belly flop into my sad past on our first date.
I’d be cheery and positive and funny and charming—as best I could. I’d set all my bittersweet emotions about my lost mother on a mental shelf. And then I’d shut the conversation down before I could accidentally reveal any personal imperfections … and go stop by the grocery store for the ingredients for the cake.
Yellow cake with chocolate icing. My mom’s favorite. And mine, too.
This would work. I could have it all.
As long as I kept to the schedule.
* * *
I WENT DOWN to Bean Street at six o’clock on the dot. I found a table that faced the exterior door, couldn’t resist dabbing just one more spot of a lipstick color called Passionfruit onto the poutiest part of my lower lip, gave myself a little pep talk about how doing scary things is good for you, and waited.
And waited.
And then I waited some more.
And while I waited, I could feel the confidence leaking out of me like a punctured tire. Was it cold in here? Maybe I should’ve brought a sweater. Should I take my hair back down? Was my lipstick too orangy? And of all the bras I owned, how had I managed to grab the one that always slid off my shoulder?
I yanked the shoulder strap up and pressed it in place sternly, like, Stay.
Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe I couldn’t pull this off. The entire future I’d just mapped out for myself as Mrs. Oliver Addison, DVM, was riding on not screwing up this moment.
The words don’t screw it up kept circling around in my head like they were on an airplane banner. Great tip—but the problem was, there were so many ways to screw it up.