Page 50 of Physical Therapy

Perhaps. “I just hadn’t found the moment, I guess,” I mumble, frantically trying to find somewhere to rest that won’t come off forced.

Boe gently runs his palm the length of his thigh.

The man can keep dreaming.

“Boe said you met through work,” Sue states. “He wouldn’t tell us the story, though. Said he’d leave that up to you.” She lifts her wine to rouged lips.

I hazard a look toward Boe, yet his stoic expression gives me no hint as to what he’s already said and whether it was a lie or not.

Damn it.

“It was a chance meeting one morning, that’s all.” I take my drink from where Mom set it on the low table and occupy myself with a small sip from the glass.

“Come on, baby,” Boe coos.

I flick a heated glare his way.

“Don’t downplay it.”

“It looks as though you better fill us in on all the best bits,” Mom urges.

“When is dinner due?” I interject.

“In about”—Mom checks her watch—“ten minutes. Why?”

“Can you help me set the table, please?” I jerk my head toward the kitchen.

She frowns, yet takes my hint and rises from her seat. “I’ll be back. Why don’t you fill Boe in on our day, Sue?”

I refrain from dragging my mother out of earshot, instead setting a prompt pace for her to follow.

She places her glass down on the counter once we’re alone and fixes me with a raised eyebrow, hand to hip. “What on earth has gotten into you?”

“I’ve been caught off guard, is all.”

“In what way?” she presses. “Why would me meeting your latest squeeze get you in such a flap?” Her eyes narrow sharply.

I hug myself; ass leaned into the counter opposite. “What has he told you?”

“He’s between jobs, that you’ve only been together a short while, but he didn’t need a lot of time to know you were right for him.” She takes on a dreamy faraway look, hands pressed to her heart. “So beautiful, really.”

“Christ,” I mutter.

“Edith!”

The remaining wine in my glass disappears with three hearty gulps. “It’s very new, like he said,” I explain. “I don’t want to bore you with his background in case it doesn’t work out.”

She gives me a disappointed purse of her lips. “The man is smitten with you,” Mom offers in hushed tones. “Why wouldn’t it work out?”

“Perhaps he’s not as right for me as he thinks I am for him.” I shrug. “We’re still learning about one another.”

“Honey.” She crosses the kitchen and sets her hands on my upper arms. “You asked him to move in.”

“Because I thought it would highlight our differences.”

“And it hasn’t. “She rubs her hands up and down and then gently squeezes. “So what is it you fear?”

Fear. My God. I needed my damn mother to analyze me as I do my patients for me to darn well see it.

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