are ready to come home for good to see you.”
I didn’t really know what to say. Though we agreed on very
few things in life, it was still difficult for me to know that I was honestly a
disappointment to my mother.
I brought the phone away from my ear and looked at the
screen. Forty-seven seconds. My first conversation with my mother in seven
months, and it lasted only forty-seven seconds.
There had been quite a few instances in the past ten years
that warranted crying, though not all were sad. There was my brother’s wedding,
and the birth of my first nephew. There was even my own engagement, but I
didn’t even feel like I was allowed to shed tears of joy for that. And when it
all came crashing down, my eyes were dry.
So, I knew that crying over my mother’s insensitivity was
useless. It wouldn’t change anything; my mother still saw me as a
disappointment and a failure. I had heard plenty of lectures during my life
from my mother, and I took most of them to heart. I went to church on Sundays
and made dinner for my family on Monday nights. I cleaned our home without
complaining, and played the piano, just like my mother wanted. But none of it
mattered. I’d already ruined any chance of being the daughter that Lydia Devlin
had hoped for in me, the most beautiful of her three daughters.
I took a deep breath to steady myself and looked up at the
clock. Jackson was picking me up in an hour, and getting ready for our second
date of the week would be the perfect way to keep my mind off everything. That
night, that perfect night with the wine and cheeseburgers and Casablanca ,
had been almost three weeks prior, and he’d asked me out again immediately. I
said yes without hesitation, though I knew it would have been better for
everyone if I just called it off. It wasn’t going to end well, I knew it even
then, but I couldn’t do it.
I’d gone shopping again, and filled my closet with a few
other things that I found secondhand. If we did actually get photographed
together, there was no way I was going to let Jackson be seen with someone who
couldn’t at least dress well.
I chose a navy dress that night, paired with a black
cardigan, since it’d been a little cooler out. I didn’t have time to fix my
hair, so I threw it into a low, messy bun, styled into disheveled perfection.
Jackson arrived early again, this time with a handful of
multicolored wildflowers.
“You look absolutely beautiful tonight, Mellie,” he said when
I opened the door, though it took him a few moments of silence to get the words
out.
“Thank you,” I said, barely acknowledging the compliment,
before inviting him inside again so I could put the flowers in water. I placed
them on the counter before we made our way out the door.
I didn’t want to be annoyed at him, but the conversation with
my mother had truly bothered me. I hated even more that I’d let her bother me.
She had nothing to do with my relationship with Jackson, and I really did just
want to let it go.
He took me to a small, authentic Mexican restaurant in
Venice. It was quiet, and there weren’t too many people inside. I wondered if
he did that on purpose, if he knew exactly where to take me so that we wouldn’t
have to deal with any crazy fans. I’d been living in California for over seven
months now, but I’d yet to eat Mexican food as authentic as the tamales I ate
that night, and I doubted I could ever go back to Taco Bell after that.
I listened intently as Jackson talked about his hometown and
family. He grew up only an hour away from where we were, in a small, overly
safe “town-city,” as Jackson put it.
“What about your parents, do they still live there?” I asked
as I took a bite of rice and beans.
He put his fork down to take a drink of the beer in front of
him. “My mom died when I was sixteen. My dad still lives there, with my
youngest brother.”
I brought my hand to my mouth in chagrined shock. “I’m so
sorry, Jackson, I had no
I didn’t really know what to say. Though we agreed on very
few things in life, it was still difficult for me to know that I was honestly a
disappointment to my mother.
I brought the phone away from my ear and looked at the
screen. Forty-seven seconds. My first conversation with my mother in seven
months, and it lasted only forty-seven seconds.
There had been quite a few instances in the past ten years
that warranted crying, though not all were sad. There was my brother’s wedding,
and the birth of my first nephew. There was even my own engagement, but I
didn’t even feel like I was allowed to shed tears of joy for that. And when it
all came crashing down, my eyes were dry.
So, I knew that crying over my mother’s insensitivity was
useless. It wouldn’t change anything; my mother still saw me as a
disappointment and a failure. I had heard plenty of lectures during my life
from my mother, and I took most of them to heart. I went to church on Sundays
and made dinner for my family on Monday nights. I cleaned our home without
complaining, and played the piano, just like my mother wanted. But none of it
mattered. I’d already ruined any chance of being the daughter that Lydia Devlin
had hoped for in me, the most beautiful of her three daughters.
I took a deep breath to steady myself and looked up at the
clock. Jackson was picking me up in an hour, and getting ready for our second
date of the week would be the perfect way to keep my mind off everything. That
night, that perfect night with the wine and cheeseburgers and Casablanca ,
had been almost three weeks prior, and he’d asked me out again immediately. I
said yes without hesitation, though I knew it would have been better for
everyone if I just called it off. It wasn’t going to end well, I knew it even
then, but I couldn’t do it.
I’d gone shopping again, and filled my closet with a few
other things that I found secondhand. If we did actually get photographed
together, there was no way I was going to let Jackson be seen with someone who
couldn’t at least dress well.
I chose a navy dress that night, paired with a black
cardigan, since it’d been a little cooler out. I didn’t have time to fix my
hair, so I threw it into a low, messy bun, styled into disheveled perfection.
Jackson arrived early again, this time with a handful of
multicolored wildflowers.
“You look absolutely beautiful tonight, Mellie,” he said when
I opened the door, though it took him a few moments of silence to get the words
out.
“Thank you,” I said, barely acknowledging the compliment,
before inviting him inside again so I could put the flowers in water. I placed
them on the counter before we made our way out the door.
I didn’t want to be annoyed at him, but the conversation with
my mother had truly bothered me. I hated even more that I’d let her bother me.
She had nothing to do with my relationship with Jackson, and I really did just
want to let it go.
He took me to a small, authentic Mexican restaurant in
Venice. It was quiet, and there weren’t too many people inside. I wondered if
he did that on purpose, if he knew exactly where to take me so that we wouldn’t
have to deal with any crazy fans. I’d been living in California for over seven
months now, but I’d yet to eat Mexican food as authentic as the tamales I ate
that night, and I doubted I could ever go back to Taco Bell after that.
I listened intently as Jackson talked about his hometown and
family. He grew up only an hour away from where we were, in a small, overly
safe “town-city,” as Jackson put it.
“What about your parents, do they still live there?” I asked
as I took a bite of rice and beans.
He put his fork down to take a drink of the beer in front of
him. “My mom died when I was sixteen. My dad still lives there, with my
youngest brother.”
I brought my hand to my mouth in chagrined shock. “I’m so
sorry, Jackson, I had no
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