“Thank you for saying that.”
“It’s the truth. And don’t you forget it.”
I can’t help myself. I lace my arms around his neck and pull him in for a kiss that’s soft and sweet but still filled with the promise of what’s to come later. He looks slightly dazed and almost shy when I pull away.
“Okay,” he says, “and now Duke and I are going to get out of here before I say or do something stupid and ruin the moment.”
“What could you possibly do to accomplish that?”
“I can’t be sure. Something weird. And considering you’re still wearing my sweatshirt, there’s a solid chance it’d be inappropriate.”
“I think I like it when you’re inappropriate.” My arms are still wrapped around his neck as I pull him in a little closer, bringing myself flush against him.
Ryan lets out a slow breath. “You are going to be the death of me, Sullivan.”
I push him away with a playful smile. “Have a nice walk.”
“Surprise!” My mother, wearing khaki dress pants and a pale pink top, kisses my cheek and crosses the doorway into the apartment.
“Wow,” I say, feigning astonishment, “I can’t believe you’re here.” I close the door and follow her into the living room.
Dear God, please let me pull this off.
“It’s so good to see you,” I go on. “I’m sorry I’ve been out of touch this week. I’ve been a little preoccupied with writing.”
Mom sits down on the couch, placing her purse and a shopping bag down next to her. “I understand that you’re busy and you have a deadline, but it’d still make me feel better if you kept checking in. You know I worry about you.”
“Yes, I know.” I sit down in my reading chair and try to ignore the flurry of risqué memories it now brings to mind. “Again, I’m sorry. I’ll make sure to keep checking in from now on.”
“Good. So has it been a den of productivity over here this week? Is that why you’ve been too busy to make a five-minute phone call to your mother?” My mom speaks two languages: English and guilt. If only she would harness her powers for good instead of evil.
“Pretty much,” I agree. “Just wall-to-wall productivity.”
“Well, that’s good. I know you’re cutting it close. Is there anything I can read yet?”
“Not quite but soon. I think you’ll like it. It’s another historical.”
“I like everything you write and I like contributing, too. Speaking of, I got these for you.” She picks up the shopping bag beside her and holds it out for me. I stand up from my chair and take it with a wary smile.
“Thank you.” I reach into the bag and, one by one, pull out three tank tops, all made with thin material. I force my smile to hold. “These are great. Very thoughtful.”
“You don’t like them.” Her voice is passive but lined with frustration.
“I think they’re very you.”
“You haven’t even tried them on yet. The colors will complement you so well. Why don’t you like them?”
“Because I don’t, Mom. I like T-shirts and sweaters and tops you can’t see through.”
“Return them, then,” she says, crossing her legs and looking around the room. “The receipt is in the bag.”
A familiar twinge of disappointment settles inside me. “I don’t mean to sound unappreciative, but you always buy me clothes that you know I won’t wear.”
“Lesson learned. I won’t buy you clothes anymore.”
“Mom, come on,” I say, waiting until she finally looks at me. “Why does it have to be like this? I love seeing you and spending time with you, but every time we get together our talks always turn snappy.”
“You’re the one who gets snappy. I’m just trying to encourage you.”
“Encourage me to what?”
“To improve yourself. To venture out of your comfort zone.”
“But why do I have to improve myself?” I sigh, feeling like we’re going round and round all over again. “You act like I’m some miserable crone wading through a swamp just because I don’t live your lifestyle and dress the way you want me to.”
“All I’m trying to do is help. When you lived at home, you always felt insecure wearing anything that wasn’t three sizes too big. To this day you practically wear the same stretchy pants and sweater every time you come over. Am I supposed to see you struggling and do nothing?”
“I’m not struggling, though. I’m happy with myself. I know eating extremely healthy and exercising a ton has helped you deal with a lot of painful stuff, but it’s not for me. Just because I like to wear comfortable clothes doesn’t mean I hate my body.”
Mom gets quiet and I hope my honesty didn’t make her feel bad. I’ve always used humor as a shield to hide how much her words can hurt. I’ve never been vulnerable with her about this before. Her silence leaves me feeling exposed and nervous and I debate whether I should have said anything at all.
“I only want what’s best for you, Kara,” she eventually says. “I want you to find real love and get married and have a family and it’s going to be so much harder for you to get there if you’re not confident within yourself. Losing your dad made me see how fast life goes by and I don’t want you to waste any more time.”
I take a second and her words sink in, heavy and honest. “I know that you love me and you’re coming from a good place, but your opinion means so much to me. I’m never going to be fully confident or think that I’m good enough until you do, too.”
Mom looks at me and I have the intense instinct to say that I’m kidding, that I haven’t been grasping for her approval for most of my life and she should forget everything I just said.
But I say nothing. Instead, seconds pass by in silence until Mom folds her hands in her lap.
“I never meant to hurt you,” she says. “You and Jen
