Page 21 of Rivals to Lovers
“Silver linings,” Wes managed, though inside he was devastated. He hadn’t seen his parents be affectionate with each other in years, but he assumed that was just a habit, the cool monied distance between an older couple. Marble countertops and polished rims on your car and not touching each other: that was older couplehood, wasn’t it? And then he thought about the blush in Gary’s cheeks last night in the hallway and couldn’t stop his frown. Passion wasn’t time-stamped, and he supposed he wanted his mother to have …privacy. He wanted his mother to have privacy and the space to figure it out herself. If the story didn’t get out to the press, she’d be able to do that. Most outlets were too busy interrogating the love lives of twenty-year-old celebrities to worry about media moguls in their early seventies.
Maureen stepped out of the dressing room and turned toward a three-way mirror. The dress she had put on was stunning but simple: a cap-sleeved floral silk number that cut off at the knees. He probably shouldn’t have noticed the way it nipped in at her waist in the right places, accentuating her hips. He definitely shouldn’t have noticed the way it curved around her breasts, the front of the dress high necked so they were fully covered but somehow still emphasized. It was almost like writing subtext. Hemingway’s iceberg principle of a book, except with breasts and hips and …
He cleared his throat. “That’s beautiful.”
She turned, seeming surprised that he and his mother were watching. “It’s on sale,” she said. “I mean,reallyon sale.”
“You must be from the Midwest,” Ulla said. “I had a roommate in college who always had to make that disclaimer about something nice. She was from Indiana.”
“Iowa.” Mo blushed, the little bit of her chest that was showing turning pink as a sunburn. She ran a self-conscious hand down the front of the dress. “I don’t really need it.”
“We barelyneedanything in this life,” Ulla countered. “But sometimes I think about beautiful things as helping me to understand the next life. Just a little flavor.”
That made Mo laugh. “You think heaven has tailored pleats like this?”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it.” Ulla laughed.
“Your sister is getting married, right? There’s always a need for something fantastic for weddings,” Wes said. He couldn’t imagine anyone else in that dress, and he had a good imagination. So good it was having trouble not imagining her out of it as well.
She seemed surprised he remembered. “You’re right. Okay.” Wes caught her glance down at the price tag, then out the window.
“Let me get it,” Ulla said.
“No,” Maureen said, her voice suddenly solid. The blush crept higher up her chest into her cheeks. “I mean, no thank you.”
Ulla paused. “As a gift for putting up with Wes this weekend,” she said, making her voice light.
Maureen’s finger twisted in the hem of the dress. “How about this,” she said, “I will pay you back once I get my book advance for the adaptation.”
“That’s presumptuous,” Wes said.
Ulla clapped. “Perfect,” she said, and placed the dress gently on top of the pile.
Mo walked out of the store with a dress bag over her arm. Ulla kissed her son’s cheek and gave Maureen a pat on the arm as they walked toward their respective cars. Her social schedule called her away to a boat party. “It’s awfully early in the season to be out on the water,” she said, “but needs must.”
Again with the idea of needs, thrown about so carelessly. What did anyone need, really, besides the basics? But Wes couldn’t imagine his mother without the lifestyle she lived, the smell of her perfume and the way her clothes were perfectly pressed. He couldn’t imagine his mother without hisfather, perhaps the ultimate accessory—a seventy-year-old version of Ken, with a tennis racket and sports car. Mo and Wes watched Ulla drive away and turned to one another, their two-ness suddenly more intimate after being observed by a parent. He had never been a teen under his parents’ roof for any stretch of time, what with boarding school and summer camp every year from ten to eighteen, but he had noticed his mother watching him watching Maureen, though. Embarrassing. He hoped Maureen hadn’t noticed.
They walked for a while longer, comparing the window displays at the various stores. Downtown Greenwich had a collaged feel—a mixture of upscale brands and local boutiques, antique stores, and restaurants. A gardener watered a basket of just-blossoming flowers hanging from a hook on the streetlight. Greenwich was careful and curated, like arranged flowers that depended on daily watering. Maureen reminded him of wildflowers. He scarcely had time to wonder where that thought had come from before he almost smacked into her back. She had stopped in front of an expansive glass window.
It was a gelato place that Wes had overindulged at on more than one occasion. “What’s your favorite gelato?” he asked.
Mo scrunched her nose again, even more evident under the overlarge sunglasses she had pulled from her purse. The morning sun had risen higher in the sky. “I hate the texture of gelato. I just like ice cream.”
“Heathen.”
“But for ice cream flavors, I like pistachio.”
He shook his head, hard. “No, pistachio gelato is much better. That’s my choice. Always.” Her pace quickened, thoughhe didn’t think she noticed that it had. He hustled to keep up. “Gelato has less fat in it.”
“I don’t worry about fat when I’m eating ice cream,” she shot back. “Do I need to?”
God, she did not need to. He had schooled himself into thinking about it for years in the cookbook business—low-fat everything had been the trend for so long. He also knew he wasn’t skinny, and never had been. He was fine with his body, and he was more than fine with hers, not that hers was his business. He leaned toward full flavor and full fat when he cooked for himself and loved dating people who did the same.
Not that he was thinking about dates. “Because gelato is served a little warmer, it numbs your tongue less.”
“I like cold ice cream. That’s literally the point of ice cream.”
“The point is that because your tongue is not numb, you can taste everything. All the pistachio deliciousness. It’s all there. And listen, it’s okay for you to be wrong sometimes, Mo.” He had meant the last statement as a friendly barb but realized the moment it was out of his mouth that he’d made a mistake.
