Page 62 of Books and Hookups

What had made me late was choosing shoes to go with it. I’d stood in front of the mirror in my favorite combat boots for a full five minutes, trying to convince myself I could get away with it. But in the end, I couldn’t. I’d dug through the bottom of my closet for a pair of black flats that wouldn’t make my mother cluck her tongue.

Smoothing down the soft black fabric of my skirt, I grabbed the door handle to the fancy restaurant my parents had chosen when I asked them to meet me for brunch.

Taking a deep breath, I strode inside. La Colombe Bleue wasn’t the kind of place where they let you wander around looking for your party, so I allowed the host to guide me to my parents’ table near the window. They looked the same as they had in February. My mother’s hair was strawberry blond down to its roots, and my father’s suit was impeccably pressed as always.

Mom spotted me first. Smiling, she stood and held out her arms. I fell into her embrace. She gave the best hugs, and I needed one after hanging out with way-too-young Danny, his brother, and his not-girlfriend who made me feel like the kind of woman who started sentences with, “Back in my day…”

Hanging with Danny’s family at the anniversary party and then with his brother on his birthday two weekends ago had made me realize that I probably owed it to my family to tell them the news that seemed to spread faster than wildfire. Even if they wouldn’t be nearly as pleased about it as Danny’s family.

After a few seconds, she released me and looked down my body. Could she feel my firm belly?

“That’s a pretty dress,” she said. “Does it come in a brighter color?”

My lip curled. “I wouldn’t know. I only care if it comes in black. Hi, Dad.”

His hug was much briefer. “Good morning. I’m glad you called. We haven’t seen you in months, and your mother misses you.”

Aaaaand he’d delivered me a plate of guilt before I’d even looked at the menu. At the square table, I chose the chair next to my father, across from my mother.

The waiter bustled over with a pitcher. “Mimosa?”

God, this was going to be difficult without the pleasant buzz of alcohol. “No, thank you. Could I have sparkling water, please?”

That earned me another searching gaze from my mother.

My father lifted his champagne flute and sipped. “We missed you at our cocktail party. Your mother put on an impressive event, as usual.”

“It’s so easy these days,” she said. “All I have to do is put out half a dozen charcuterie boards, and everyone’s happy. I don’t even bother with hot hors d’oeuvres anymore.”

“It was a friend’s birthday,” I said. “I couldn’t miss it.” Though I’d been glad of the excuse not to be apologized for in front of Dad’s colleagues.

The waiter brought my sparkling water, and since my parents were ready to order, I chose hurriedly and handed him the menu folio.

“What are you working on?” Dad asked.

“You know, whatever the news is that day. And my book.”

“You shouldn’t still be a staff reporter,” he said. “You should be a managing editor by now.”

“Managing editors don’t have any fun.” Suddenly, I was a surly fifteen-year-old again. “They stay in the office all day. They don’t get to go outside and cover authentic stories.”

“But managing editors can share their opinions,” he said. “Those opinions have weight in the community. People listen to them. Instead of writing about what happened at a gun rights rally, you could have written a piece about how dangerous assault weapons are and how they’ve been used in so many tragic shootings. Or how the right policies could prevent needless suffering.”

“I-I’d rather report the facts and let people draw their own conclusions,” I lied. He knew me too well to believe that.

He speared me with a flinty stare before lifting his glass. “Then I suppose you’re in the right place.”

I felt like one of his grad students who’d submitted an essay riddled with typos. But I lifted my chin. “I am.”

“How is your book going, honey?” Mom asked.

“Well,” I lied. Again. “I have several interviews lined up.”

“Interviews?” Dad asked. “Shouldn’t you have completed your research? You sold the book eight months ago.”

“I…I’m still looking for the star interview. The one that’s going to turn the book from good to great,” I admitted.

“Did you talk to Dr. Watts?” he asked. “She’s one of the most notable Black female presidents of a major university.”

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