Page 48 of Defended By Love

Part of me wonders just how much I can put on my plate until she stops celebrating each moment like I’m resuscitating a baby lamb with my bare hands.

“Do you do this for all the girls Grant brings home? With the price of groceries nowadays, that’s one expensive morning after.”

Grant’s mom laughs. Again. Seriously, is this house filled with nitrous oxide or something? It wasn’t a joke. The cost of living affects us all.

My mind flashes back to the girl outside my building who I gave my umbrella to. It really isn’t a joking matter. I think about her outside in the rain on a terrible night like the other night…

I frown. Something gnaws at the edge of my brain—a thought scratching at the door, requesting my attention.

“I hope he doesn’t mind me saying this, but you’re actually the first young lady he’s ever brought home.”

The polite thing to do would be to redirect this conversation. I could talk about the weather, fabric softeners, postage stamps, or dog breeds (all on my list of handy conversation starters), but I really don’t care. I have the gift of unlimited first impressions, so I’m going to get what I want—embarrassing and/or useful information on Grant.

It’ll serve him right for sleeping in. It’s like I always say: anyone who sleeps in past sunrise is just asking to lose.

“Are you saying he’s a virgin?” I ask, biting off a piece of melon.

“Oh, well, uh,” she sputters. Every instinct in me screams to laugh nervously and change the subject.

Sorry, social conditioning, today we’re going rogue.

She catches my eye, but I just stare her down. No, I will not be changing the subject. I will ask every awkward question my heart desires—a real dream come true for me—and I won’t give a shit. As I stare my best icy stare, she smiles and then laughs again.

“I like you.” She reaches forward, squeezes my hand a little, and then grabs a piece of toast.

I pause. She likes me? No parent has ever said that—my own exempt, although I feel like their words were a bit coerced due to the aforementioned social conditioning.

“No.” She covers her mouth like a cute old lady when she speaks. “I have no illusions that my thirty-four-year-old son is a virgin.” I breathe out a sigh of relief. At least he hasn’t been saving himself for some fabled soulmate his whole life. That really would’ve added another level to this all. “It’s just that I’ve never had him bring a girl home. Though I imagine he did when he was living on his own. Maybe. He’s rather private about this, which is why I was so surprised to see he had a guest this morning.”

She smiles at me, like she’s sending a compliment my way. I don’t bite. I will not be distracted by shiny promises of inflated self-worth. No, I’m much more interested in the other thing she said.

“What do you mean when he was living on his own? Was he out on his own? Did he force you to let him move back in? How long was he on his own for? Did he do his own laundry while he was gone? Why did he move back in?”

Grant’s mom (I really should ask her name) finishes her bite of toast slowly, looking far away as she does so.

“How much do you know about what happened?” she asks finally.

“Almost nothing. We’re virtual strangers and most of our interactions have been based on orgasms, suspicions, and lies.”

Grant’s mom laughs again. Weird family. Maybe I should lend them Dr. Debbie’s book. There’s a whole chapter about inappropriate laughter. The TL;DR is that it’s discouraged. Then again, she’d just forget everything she read with the reset.

“It’s funny to have a conversation, just the two of us, at this hour in the morning. For years and years, it didn’t matter what time it was, the house was constantly loud, loud with the sounds of running feet, yelling, and laughter. My husband and I had six boys—which, just between us girls, I recommend accepting what kind of ammo your husband is shooting after three boys and stop trying for a girl. Grant is the youngest of them all. Although, I’m sure you can tell that at a glance, along with the fact that he’s a Sagittarius.”

She smiles at me. I get the distinct feeling that I’m supposed to chime in here with some agreement.

“Oh, no,” I say flatly. “I think astrology is perhaps the most nonsensical thing that mankind has ever thought up.”

“I take it you’re a Taurus, eh,” she muses.

I don’t deign to respond to that.

Mostly because she’s somehow right. Stopped clock and all.

Grant’s mom smiles weakly at me, a recognition that she knows she’s right. A couple seconds tick past as we sit in a silence that somehow manages to be tense and comfortable all at once. It’s a silence that I realize is being counted in broken heartbeats, punctuated only by the ticking of the clock on the wall.

“This house used to be a lot louder,” she continues finally. “I still wake up every morning expecting to hear the boys fighting downstairs or something being broken. I know it wouldn’t hurt so much every time I wake up to silence if I wasn’t expecting something else. It’s just hard to break old habits.” She gestures to the enormous plate of food in front of us. “Clearly.”

Instead of assaulting her with the thousand questions that plague my mind about what happened, I just smile and wait for her to continue. At her own pace. If she wants.

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