Page 73 of Can't Kiss the Chef

Lola reaches for her second peanut-covered donut when I drop the plan I had pre-sex tape drama.

“So, my mom thinks I’m coming home tomorrow, and I’m planning on stopping at her place. Do you–uh–want to come with me?” I take a quick glance in her direction. Her expression is hard to read.

“I called her best friend from the hospital to make sure she wasn’t working today, so I’ll probably spend a good amount of the afternoon there just as a fair warning.”

I’m a confident guy. I have played on the biggest stages in college hockey, but the vulnerability it takes asking Lola to hang out with me and my mom quickly overshadows it.

They met for a quick second this summer, but that was the first time I ever introduced someone to her. There were times she’d catch me in a compromising position on our living room couch with a high school fling when I thought she was working a night shift. That’s just not the same thing.

Lola is coughing, trying to clear her throat, brushing peanut crumbs off her shirt.

“You don’t have to,” I say hastily, “but I think she would love to see you.”

“I’d love to see her again,” her cheeks turn rosy as her eyes turn down bashfully. “I just wasn’t expecting to do it today.”

I try to play it cool, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel.

“I’ve been wanting to ask for like a week.” I keep my eyes focused on the road.

“Ahhh,” she coos. “Is someone embarrassed?”

“No.” My tone is defensive, but it takes one look to my right and the playful look on Lola’s face is all I need to know that I made the right choice in asking her to come with me.

“Whatever you say liar, but we need to stop so I can pick something up. My Nonna would kill me if I showed up at someone’s house empty handed.”

She just needs to be herself to win my mom over, but as a part-time Italian I don’t argue.

“There is this little bakery around the corner from the apartment that she loves. Why don’t we stop there?”

“Sounds good.” She turns, failing to hide her small smile.

We arrive at my childhood apartment thirty minutes later than any GPS would have predicted. Lola spent twenty minutes debating what kind of cream cheese my mom would like. At one point she had eight containers spread across the counter. I somehow was able to talk her into just five.

Note to self: never take Lola to a restaurant with more than three options.

“You do realize that the only reason we needed this second bag was because you bought more cream cheese than a woman who lives alone will be able to eat in a year.”

Lola’s nose turns up, “Well when you decided to take me to cream cheese heaven, what did you expect to happen?”

Mia runs in front of us and starts scratching at Mom’s door. I dig through my backpack, looking for my house key. Mom always keeps her door locked. The key lines up perfectly with the lock, like it always does. There is always this sense of calm that washes over me when I come home. Things around me are always changing; class schedules, draft predictions. This place always stays the same.

As I push the door open, I yell. “Surprise.”

I freeze after two steps. I’m the one in shock. Lola slams into my back and the containers of cream cheese scatter across the floor.

It’s like my brain can’t compute what I’m looking at.

“Are you okay, By?” Lola asks me.

If I looked behind me, concern would be etched into every crevice of her face. I’m too focused on what’s in front of me.

My mom is cuddled on the couch, a blanket is pulled up to her chin, her head resting against a man’s shoulder.

“Byron, you’re home early,” Mom’s forehead creases. Her eyes dart between matching pairs of blue eyes.

“How’ve you been, Son?”

28

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