Page 42 of The Sweet Spot

“Interesting.”

I chew my inner cheek, staring unseeingly at the menu. “So, is that place still around? The patisserie?”

“Nah, it’s something else now, a specialty grocer or something.” He smirks. “As if we don’t have enough of those in New York City.”

“That’s kind of a bummer. I’d hate it if they shut this place down,” I say, imagining how I’d feel to see a lifetime of memories bulldozed or transformed into a fancy-pants grocery store.

Arlo nods. “It was a bummer. I went maybe a year after Ma passed away, just sort of a nostalgic thing. You know.” He shrugs, drumming his fingerson the table. “And it was gone. Everything changes, I suppose.”

“Yes, that’s true. My grandmother always says that change is the only constant.”

“She’s a wise woman.”

I smile. “She’s got sayings for everything, I swear. I always tell her I need to start writing them down, make a coffee table book out of them or something.”

I’m being a bit facetious, but Arlo raises his eyebrows. “You should. You absolutely should. Start now, don’t waste time. Older generations are such a resource, such a wealth of wisdom and information…and you never know how long someone has.”

The faint ache that visits my heart whenever I think about my grandmother dying comes now, and I nod. “You’re right. I should. Maybe…maybe you could meet her before you head back to New York.”

“I’d like that.” He cocks his head. “I want to know who you are, the people who made you. I know I had a hand in the physical process, but that’s such a small part of who we are.”

“Sounds like what I’m studying at school,” I say. “Nature versus nurture. Either, both.”

Carlos returns with our drinks. After taking our order—I get a bacon cheeseburger, which my mother would loathe if she was here—while Arlo gets an omelet with home fries.

“Anytime I can get breakfast food, I do,” he confides, those emerald eyes twinkling. “That’s another favorite.”

* **

“You’re sure this is a good idea?” Mom smooths her hands over her jeans as she surveys the room. “You don’t think we should’ve just gone out, after all? Someplace neutral?”

“This is fine,” I assure her, laying out the cutlery. We’re eating out on the balcony. It’s a nice night, and there’s actually more room out here than in the cramped kitchen.

“I just don’t want things to get weird. You know.”

“I told you; he’s really nice. Things aren’t going to get weird.” But I get it. The way she and Arlo get along—or don’t—matters. They have a bond whether they want to or not. Me.

“Maybe not for you, no, but I’ve had this man’s sperm inside me despite the fact we’ve never met.”

Grimacing at the unnecessary visual, I straighten up. “Gross, Mom.”

“Well, it’s true,” she says petulantly, hands on her hips.

“You were the one who wanted to have dinner on your own turf,” I remind her. “You said you felt most comfortable here.”

“I know what I said,” she says, disappearing into the kitchen. “I’m opening the wine. Want something?”

“I’m good for now.”

I fiddle with the flowers I arranged earlier, making sure the garden roses and peonies are evenly distributed in the fringe bush foliage. As crazy as my mother makes me, I get why she’s apprehensive. I felt the same way before meeting Arlo. But now we’ve hung out twice, and it’s been as easy as breathing. I’d worried that someone as accomplished as him, this city dwelling, world traveling photojournalist, would be difficult to entertain let alone impress. But Arlo’s surprisingly low-key. A good listener who seems as curious about me as I am about him.

“Pictures are just stories,” he’d said during our first lunch together. “When I take people’s pictures, I capture little bits of their stories and then, if I’m lucky, they tell me the rest.”

Then he took a picture of me in the booth at Loni’s.

I smile now, remembering. My smile had been a little goofy, and I was clutching my napkin like it was a security blanket, but it was good. Real.

Mom strolls over, sighing. “Sorry, little bird. I’ll be fine. I just can’t believe we’re finally meeting this guy.”

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