Page 106 of Ruling Scar
She sighs, holding the knife upright, but momentarily stopping her actions. “Lennie, we know you’re dating someone. And Leopold is a nice boy.”
“W-what?” She throws me for a loop with that last statement.
She leans her hips into the island. The knife reflects a spotlight overhead. “I know that’s who you’re dating. It’s obvious. You went out and now it’s turning into something more serious. He’s a complete sweetheart. I don’t know why you’re ashamed of your family.”
“Ashamed of my? What?” Something doesn’t settle. “Mom, you sound like you know him or have talked to him.”
That’s not possible, right?
A mischievous smirk shows up on my mother’s face. “I ran into him in the grocery store.”
Nerves hammer through my body with a dull ache.
“What?” I ask.
She mistakes my horror for embarrassment. “I ran into him in the grocery store.”
Mom insists on going all the time because she wants to pick out the ingredients. I can’t say with certainty where Leopold does his shopping, but it sure as shit isn’t at our neighborhood market.
This fucking bastard.
Heat prickles my skin, scorching down my spine.
“Mom.”
She eyes me, smiling, as I try to dissolve the pins and needles.
“I’m not dating Leopold.”
The smile remains the same.
“I’m serious. I’m not dating Leopold. He’s actually kind of a creep.” It’s an understatement, but it’s too hard to explain further.
Her smile drops, but she analyzes me in a way that implies she thinks I’m lying. But I wonder how my mom can think I’m dating a man like Leopold. Sure, she might not know everything about him but does she really believe he’s my type? I’m hit with the possibility that my mother doesn’t know me.
“I’m not dating Leopold.” My voice grows a tad bit stronger. “But I am dating someone else.”
I stop to take a breath, my eyes finding a cream tile on the floor because I can’t handle the weight of my mom’s gaze.
“I know you’re not going to be happy.” On my next breath, I say, “But I’m dating Elijah.”
There’s only the sound of the bubbling pot.
Mom’s strangely still. She tilts her head slightly, but the only other source of movement comes from the boiling water.
“Um,” I say at her silence. “Elijah Zimin.”
“Yes, I know Elijah.” Finally, there’s movement, in the form of her brow knitting together. Her lips pucker and her hands move for another carrot.
“It’s kind of recent, but, um.” My fingers fidget together. My mother’s chopping grows louder. “Maybe he could come over for dinner.”
The past is all water under the bridge, right?
“Mom?” I worry when she refuses to look up.
Her hands move, cutting vegetable after vegetable, more than we’d ever need. “When?” she bites out.
She’s not asking about the scheduling for a potential meet-the-family dinner.
