“I have a friend coming over for dinner.”
“Oh?” She doesn’t even hide her excitement.
“Mom—a friend,” I emphasize. “Actually, it’s a funny story…”
I proceed to tell her how we bumped into each other at the memorial and I spotted him on the same flight out the next day. Then I told her about my Mazda breaking down, and of course she immediately offered money so I could buy a new one before I had a chance to mention I already had one.
Thanks to the years Dad put in with General Motors, Mom is left with a decent pension and a good return on some of their investments. It doesn’t mean she has to spend it on me.
It takes me ten minutes to convince her I’m fine, I purchased a good car with money I’d set aside for it. Then I mention how Gray had been instrumental in that, and how I’m thanking him with dinner.
Sadly it does little to curb my mother’s romantic fantasies for me. In fact, I think it only encourages her.
“Mom, I should get going,” I finally say. “I’ll pick you up next Wednesday at ten, okay?”
“Yes, of course. You probably need to change. Put a nice dress on or something.” I roll my eyes and try to hold back the exasperated sigh, but it’s like she can hear me anyway. “There’s nothing wrong with trying to look pretty, Robin.”
“I know, Mom. I promise I’ll brush my hair.”
“Oh, I was going to mention that and I almost forgot; you may want to dye your hair, you’re getting quite gray I noticed.”
My mother has a standing appointment at the hairdresser, every four weeks, when she gets her hair meticulously dyed the same chestnut color she’s had as long as I can remember. Not a single silver hair visible. She’s been on my case ever since my first gray, not understanding why I don’t want to hide them.
“Mom, I don’t want to dye my hair. It is what it is and I actually quite like it.”
“But you’re still so young.”
“I know, Mom,” I give in. There’s no way in hell she’ll ever give up on this, and it’s useless arguing the same subject expecting a different outcome. “We’ll have to agree to disagree on this topic, okay? I really have to go.”
“Of course. I love you.”
“Love you too, Mom. See you Wednesday.”
After adding the beef back in the pot, topping it off with broth, and covering it with a lid, I slide it into the oven where it’ll simmer until soft. A quick peek at the clock shows it’s already after five when I’m done peeling the potatoes and I put them on the burner, before rushing to my bedroom to get cleaned up.
I’m just running a brush through my hair when I hear the knock.
He looks freshly showered and a little lost when I open my door and when he catches sight of me, his eyes widen in appreciation.
I’m wearing the only dress I own.
Mom would be happy.
Gray
I thought I may have gone overboard bringing a box of chocolates and a bottle of wine—and I sure felt scrutinized carrying both to the cashier on my way here.
Looking at Robin wearing a dress, I don’t feel as foolish anymore. Clearly I’m not the only one trying to make a good first impression. She looks gorgeous, her full curves on display in the retro dress. I try hard not to linger on her cleavage, where I’d love to bury my face.
“Hey,” she says softly. “Come in.”
“Hi.” I step inside and shove bottle and box unceremoniously in her hands.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she protests.
“Yeah, I did. Haven’t had a proper home-cooked meal in almost two decades,” I find myself admitting to.
Where the fuck did that come from? What is it about this woman that has me spilling my guts every chance I get? I almost turn on my heel and beeline it back out the door, but she firmly closes it, grabs my arm, and steers me into a small, but warm and cozy living room.
“I’m glad you let me cook for you then,” she says simply. “Have a seat. I’ll check on dinner and grab us something to drink, what would you like?”
“Water is fine.”
“No wine?”
“Better stick to water.”
I barely keep myself from telling her I haven’t had a drink in as many years either. I sit down at the end of a dark gray sectional couch, and take in as much as I can of my surroundings without appearing like I’m scanning the place. A modest TV is hanging over the mantel, and a collection of framed pictures sits underneath. I’m curious and want to take a closer look but stay seated.
The living room flows into the dining room toward the back of the house, and the kitchen opens up to that, forming an L-shaped living space. When I walked into the small entrance, I noted a hallway leading toward the back with what I assume are bedrooms and bathroom off to the other side.
I see her walk into the dining room with two glasses and a pitcher of water, which she sets in the middle of the table.
“It’ll just be a few minutes,” she says, smiling in my direction.
I shoot to my feet as if only now remembering my manners.
“Anything I can do?” I call out, having lost sight of her in the kitchen.
“No, I’m just—Fuck! Ouch!” I hear her swear and I rush around the corner, seeing her bent over the sink.
“What happened?”
I’m already crowding behind her, looking over her shoulder.
“It’s nothing. I’m just clumsy.”
I notice she’s holding one hand with the other and a pot of half-drained potatoes sitting in the sink. Reaching around her, I fish the pot from the sink, set it on the cutting board on the counter. Then I turn on the cold
