Page 145 of Summertime Friends

“Seriously?”

“What?”

“You know what.” I glare at her.

They deliver my food and drink. Using the interruption to get off that subject, I indulge in my food. My mom follows me, cutting another bit of her salmon before forking a bite of kale.

“What is Natalie up to today? I had assumed she’d be joining us for lunch.”

“She had a prior engagement. She says hello.” I lie. I won’t be telling my mom about my fight with Natalie. A fight—ha, that’s an understatement.

“Oh. I texted her that I was going to be in the city. Maybe I can catch her before I take off.”

“How long were you planning on staying?” We hadn’t discussed this.

“A day or two.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t look too excited. I wasn’t planning on confiscating anymore of your time—I wouldn’t dare.” She laughs and smiles. You know, the kind of laugh that is a bit nervous, but you cover it up with a smile so the other person doesn’t realize. She’s got that mastered.

“Okay.” I take another drink of my matcha. “I wanted to talk to you about something, Mom.”

She nods her head and smiles this time. It’s motherly and safe. It throws me back into the past when I was a child. It is the face she used to give me before life threw itself at her.

“Did you—” I pause. “Ever love Dad?”

“Yes, of course. Where is this comingfrom, honey?”

“I don’t know.”You do know, Emerson. You can do this.“Sometimes, I think about you two and us as a family before Dad left. It’s hard to remember the two of you in love.”

My mom laughs out two breaths.

“Did Dad ever love you?” I ask her.

“I like to believe so,” she tells me, and I think I believe her.

“What happened?”

“Your father and I loved each other the best that we could. When we met, our attraction was chemical. The fall into bed five minutes after meeting sort.” Huh, I understand that, unfortunately. “We were impulsive to get married and had you quickly after. It all happened quicker than we expected. I loved—I still love him in ways and always will. For years, our dynamic worked. And it was enough—till then, one day, it wasn’t, and there was a sense of his wild youth that he wanted back.”

“You were thirty-seven when he left?”

“I know. ” She laughs. “How you get back your twenties when you are almost forty still doesn’t make sense to me.”

“Yeah,” I concur.

“Why are you asking about this?”

“You told me it was my fault,” I finally admit.

That statement hangs there between us. Her face falters.

“Honey,” she says, taking a deep breath. “That’s not true; you know that, right?”

“I was thirteen, I didn’t know. How was I supposed to?”

“I guess. . . Oh, I’m sorry.”

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