relationship. My not wanting to move out there with him had killed it.
“Not if you’re in love.”
I took my frustration out on an unsuspecting casserole dish. “Well, then I guess I wasn’t.”
“I’m rather glad, to be honest.”
I stopped in mid-scrub. “What?”
“Well, he was kind of… boring . Your father and I worried how our grandkids might turn out.” She flashed me a sheepish grin.
“Mom!”
She shrugged. “Honestly, Jessica. I don’t understand your taste in men.”
That makes two of us. I went back to scrubbing, cheeks on fire. But I’d found comfort in her admission, as if it somehow helped validate my decision to stay. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you almost seemed happy with this one.”
I stopped trying to scrub the floral pattern off her casserole dish.
Almost.
She knew me too well.
“And besides,” she said, opening a cupboard overhead to put the dish she’d just dried away, “he was a hundred times better than that Neil guy.”
I couldn’t argue with her there. Neil had been a longhaired, tattoo-covered, impromptu blind date lined up by Grace right after graduation. He and Grace’s date played in a local heavy-metal band. She’d seen the light with her lackluster date within a week. It took me a few more months to get the wake up call. Literally. He’d called early one morning, in between a gig and his day-job at Burger Heaven, giving me the “it’s not you, it’s me” spiel. For once in my life, I was actually relieved to hear those words.
“So,” my mother said, interrupting my flashback, “tell me about this new guy.”
Bulging biceps, brilliant blue eyes, thick, dark hair. “There’s not much to tell, really.” I handed her the sparkling clean casserole dish. “No one you know. Met him last week. Lives nearby.”
“Mmm, hmm. And what does he do?”
“He’s a cop.” The story rolled effortlessly off my tongue. I pictured Jiminy Cricket on my opposite shoulder, telling me I was surely going to hell.
“A police officer?” She stopped drying and stared at me. Searched my face for any hint of bullshit. But I had my game face on today. The same one I’d perfected in high school under this very roof. “Name?”
“Officer Steele.”
“That’s what you call him when you go out,” she said flatly. “ Officer Steele.”
“ No ,” I said, scrambling to remember his first name. Damn, what was it? It’d been on his business card. Thankfully, it popped into my head a second later. “ I call him Nathan. But to everyone else, he’s Officer Steele.”
“Nathan,” she said, trying it out for herself. “Sounds like a wholesome young man. He is young, isn’t he?”
“Yes, Mom.” I chuckled. “It’s not like I hooked up with some crusty old, donut-loving cop or anything. I think he’s around my age.”
Her left eyebrow hiked up a notch. “You don’t know?”
“Mother!” I feigned shock. “Why is it that men aren’t supposed to ask women their ages, but you think it’s okay for me to ask him about his?”
“You really don’t know?”
“Nope. Does that bother you?” I handed her a clean dinner plate and worked to suppress a smirk.
Her eyes narrowed. “Yes, it does. I don’t want my young, innocent, little—”
“Okay, stop.” I reached for a nearby towel and turned to face her. “I’m not some clueless teenager anymore, Mom. I run my own business, pay my own rent.”
I found strength in those words—a strength that had abandoned me this past week.
“And if I can do all of that, then I ought to be capable of selecting a decent guy to date.”
A medley of looks crossed my mother’s face—surprise, then indignation, and finally defeat. “You’re right, dear. But I’ll always worry about you. It’s what mothers do.”
I wrapped an arm around her shoulders and gave them a gentle squeeze.
“I’m not asking you to stop caring , Mom,” I said, my voice softer now as I drew back and met her watery
“Not if you’re in love.”
I took my frustration out on an unsuspecting casserole dish. “Well, then I guess I wasn’t.”
“I’m rather glad, to be honest.”
I stopped in mid-scrub. “What?”
“Well, he was kind of… boring . Your father and I worried how our grandkids might turn out.” She flashed me a sheepish grin.
“Mom!”
She shrugged. “Honestly, Jessica. I don’t understand your taste in men.”
That makes two of us. I went back to scrubbing, cheeks on fire. But I’d found comfort in her admission, as if it somehow helped validate my decision to stay. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you almost seemed happy with this one.”
I stopped trying to scrub the floral pattern off her casserole dish.
Almost.
She knew me too well.
“And besides,” she said, opening a cupboard overhead to put the dish she’d just dried away, “he was a hundred times better than that Neil guy.”
I couldn’t argue with her there. Neil had been a longhaired, tattoo-covered, impromptu blind date lined up by Grace right after graduation. He and Grace’s date played in a local heavy-metal band. She’d seen the light with her lackluster date within a week. It took me a few more months to get the wake up call. Literally. He’d called early one morning, in between a gig and his day-job at Burger Heaven, giving me the “it’s not you, it’s me” spiel. For once in my life, I was actually relieved to hear those words.
“So,” my mother said, interrupting my flashback, “tell me about this new guy.”
Bulging biceps, brilliant blue eyes, thick, dark hair. “There’s not much to tell, really.” I handed her the sparkling clean casserole dish. “No one you know. Met him last week. Lives nearby.”
“Mmm, hmm. And what does he do?”
“He’s a cop.” The story rolled effortlessly off my tongue. I pictured Jiminy Cricket on my opposite shoulder, telling me I was surely going to hell.
“A police officer?” She stopped drying and stared at me. Searched my face for any hint of bullshit. But I had my game face on today. The same one I’d perfected in high school under this very roof. “Name?”
“Officer Steele.”
“That’s what you call him when you go out,” she said flatly. “ Officer Steele.”
“ No ,” I said, scrambling to remember his first name. Damn, what was it? It’d been on his business card. Thankfully, it popped into my head a second later. “ I call him Nathan. But to everyone else, he’s Officer Steele.”
“Nathan,” she said, trying it out for herself. “Sounds like a wholesome young man. He is young, isn’t he?”
“Yes, Mom.” I chuckled. “It’s not like I hooked up with some crusty old, donut-loving cop or anything. I think he’s around my age.”
Her left eyebrow hiked up a notch. “You don’t know?”
“Mother!” I feigned shock. “Why is it that men aren’t supposed to ask women their ages, but you think it’s okay for me to ask him about his?”
“You really don’t know?”
“Nope. Does that bother you?” I handed her a clean dinner plate and worked to suppress a smirk.
Her eyes narrowed. “Yes, it does. I don’t want my young, innocent, little—”
“Okay, stop.” I reached for a nearby towel and turned to face her. “I’m not some clueless teenager anymore, Mom. I run my own business, pay my own rent.”
I found strength in those words—a strength that had abandoned me this past week.
“And if I can do all of that, then I ought to be capable of selecting a decent guy to date.”
A medley of looks crossed my mother’s face—surprise, then indignation, and finally defeat. “You’re right, dear. But I’ll always worry about you. It’s what mothers do.”
I wrapped an arm around her shoulders and gave them a gentle squeeze.
“I’m not asking you to stop caring , Mom,” I said, my voice softer now as I drew back and met her watery
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