Page 37 of Romance Languages

They each kissed me on the cheek.

“Thank you for helping out,” Mom said to me. “I’m so busy with everything. It’s good to have an extra set of hands.”

Grandma and I exchanged a look. The only thing she was busy with was tennis and remodeling the kitchen.

“Just give us another minute, and we’ll get started,” said Tilda, the catering coordinator running today’s tasting.

“How’s school?” Mom asked. She had the wavy blonde hair and wrinkled beauty of a fading beauty queen. I’d seen her high school yearbook, and she’d been at the top of the social food chain, not to mention the cheerleader pyramid.

“Going well. Spring break is in a few weeks. Once that comes, all my students zone out for the year, so I really have to make March count.”

“I remember that. Spring was when I did most of my ditching. We’d go tubing on the river, or take the train into New York City. My boyfriend at the time had a Corvette, and we’d drive with the wind blowing through my hair, Jefferson Starship blasting.”

Mom’s high school memories always sounded like the plot of some teen drama or a music video. Also, her high school boyfriend, per his yearbook photo, was a stone-cold fox. My high school experience had been vastly different. I actually went to class. It was disconcerting for her.

“Fun times,” I said.

“They were, they were.”

“I’m going to hit the head before we eat. I don’t want my bladder interrupting things.” Grandma waltzed to the bathroom.

Mom eyed my outfit, a striped shirt tucked into khakis. Before she opened her mouth, I knew what was going to come out. Her face pinched every time she was about to say something critical. “Julian, can I give you my opinion on something?”

“Sure.” I gritted my teeth, knowing she’d say it anyway.

“If I were you, I would avoid horizontal stripes in the future. They, well…they aren’t flattering on your body type.” She moved her arms out to demonstrate what my body type was. “I’m just being honest. Visually, they stretch bodies out, make them seem wider.”

I loved this shirt. I’d been so excited when I saw it on a mannequin in the store window, and even more excited when they had it in my size.

“Mom, it’s fine.”

“It’s not,” she said firmly. “I know about these things. I see people wearing awful, unflattering outfits all the time, but I can’t say anything to them because they’re strangers. That would be rude.”

Because I was her son, she could be honest with me. In her own twisted way, this was her way of showing love. It had to be hard for her having a son who she would’ve made fun of in high school.

She gave my shirt another once-over, making me wish I had a parka I could bundle up in.

“How are things going with the diet and exercise?”

“I’m not on a diet. I just had a physical, and my doctor says I’m healthy. My blood work and everything came out great.”

“Who is this doctor?”

“Weight isn’t the only signifier of health. There are skinny people who are unhealthy.”

Mom rolled her eyes. My scientific facts were no match for her uninformed views. Round and round we went.

“You’re going to be thirty-five. It gets harder to lose weight as you get older.”

Maybe she could see me floundering, but at that moment, Tilda interrupted and had us sit down, derailing Mom’s train of thought.

She gave us the menu for today. Because we were leaning toward going buffet serving, she had the chefs come up with multiple options for each course. My mouth watered at what was to come.

“That’s a lot of food,” Mom commented.

“We’re getting our money’s worth,” Grandma said, rejoining us. She sat in the seat between Mom and me.

“Well, we don’t want to go overboard. All of these tastes can add up. So let’s be careful,” Mom said, and I knew exactly who she was saying it to.

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