Page 22 of Delay of Game
“How was your night with Gracie?”
Thanks to a cluster of pre-season meetings and a well-timed dance competition, I’d successfully avoided talking to my mom about Astrid for all of two days. But Mom waited until I was waist deep in a mountain of laundry to corner me about her newest friend.
“I wouldn’t call it a ‘night.’ She read Mila a story, and I sat around while she glazed her pieces. Mila was thrilled.”
“She’s great with Mila, isn’t she?” She touched her chin, eyes faraway.
I turned a tutu inside out and chucked it in the dryer. “Mila takes to anyone who gives her undivided attention.”
“And how did showing her around the studio go? Seems like she’s not just a good teacher, but she’s shaping up to be an excellent potter.”
Mom gave a lot of compliments, but praising someone for their inherent talent at pottery ranked as the most prestigious among them. Either Mom believed it, or she wanted me to know how impressed she was by Mila’s new teacher.
“I’m sure she’ll do fine in the studio.” I pulled a load of workout clothes I’d left in the dryer and started piling them onthe table opposite. “I warned her to toss her extra clay in the pile outside and not to clog the pipes with it.”
Mom rolled her eyes as she slid the mound of clothing into the middle of the table, quickly folding a shirt. “I’m not asking about instructions. What did you think of her?”
I turned a pair of shorts inside out before folding them and stacking them on the shirt. “Nothing much.”
“Rob!” Mom’s jaw dropped before her eyes narrowed. “Don’t be hateful. Tell me the truth.”
I shrugged, tension tiptoeing up my back and settling in my shoulders. “She’s fine.”
Mom’s lips curled into a line. Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe you.”
“Fine, I’m holding out,” I sighed. “I think she’s the most brilliant potter in the world and best teacher. She’s maybe the voice of her and every other generation.”
“Don’t get sassy with me.”
“I’m not being sassy,” I chuckled. “I just don’t know what you’re looking for. You obviously like the girl. Or her aunt. Or maybe both.”
I matched a pair of socks, tossing them beside the rapidly growing stack of clothes.
Mom’s lips twisted into a pursed lip glare I got as a kid. “I sort of thought there might be something between the two of you.”
I scoffed. “When did you think that? When I made her cry?”
“Obviously not then.” Mom rolled her eyes as she tucked my practice jersey under her chin and folded over the sleeves. “But during dinner.”
“I barely spoke during dinner.”
“More than you usually do around company. And you didn’t get too upset when I suggested she stay.”
“I made her cry. You and Mila already thought I was being a monster. I wasn’t going to deny her dinner, too.”
“Gracie mentioned how helpful you were with the glazing. And according to Mila, you spent at least four episodes ofThe InBestigatorsout in the studio.”
I shook my head, “Mila really needs to learn how to tell time by some metric other than TV shows.”
“You could have shown her what to do in a half-hour, maybe less.”
“Maybe she’s just a really slow learner,” I countered.
“Don’t be ridiculous. She has her Master’s, for Christ’s sake. Simple dip glazing isn’t graduate level stuff.”
“I already told you I’m not dating. I’m not interested in dating. And I’m certainly not interested in dating Astrid.” I winced as her name escaped my mouth.
“Astrid?”
