Page 7 of Role Play
My father is a legendary writer, but he has a chronic mouth-filter issue. Barely a year after their divorce, he made a few not-so-sensitive comments about my mother’s reemergence into the dating world, and the new risqué dress hanging in her closet. The very closet my dad most definitely shouldn’t have been snooping in. After that night, they decided birthday celebrations and holidays should be independent of one another moving forward.
For a while, it was Christmas Eve spent with Mom. Christmas morning with Dad. Christmas dinner with Mom. My family really doesn’t give a rat’s ass about Thanksgiving, so that swapped back and forth. To this day, even though I’m twenty-seven, I’m still my mom’s Valentine’s Day date. The years she was in a relationship, she’d ditch her boyfriend, and we’d paintmugs. The day before my birthday, I was Dad’s. Day of my birthday, I was Mom’s.
My wonderful, attentive, handsome boyfriend graciously attends all these events with a big smile on his face. He endlessly compliments my dad’s impressive author career. He also maintains eye contact during my mother’s endless boring stories about her clients’ tricky portfolios and enthusiastically nods along as she humble-brags about her most recent promotion. He’s tall, better looking than me, but not totally out of my league. He pulls out chairs for me, has never once bought me lingerie for a gift, and even though he’s totally ripped, rugged, rides bulls, and could build me a barn with his bare hands, he’s also very sweet. Occasionally, he reads poetry when no one is looking, and helps me paint my right fingernails because my left hand is too shaky with a polish brush.
To clarify, by boyfriend, I do mean my fictitious book boyfriend.
The closest thing I’ve had to a real boyfriend in years is my very lazy, weak-willed vibrator. It’s mediocre company.
“Do you want to go to the Galbi Grill or Pajeon Palace? I’m going to make a reservation.”
“Whatever you prefer, Mama. You know Korean food better than me.” Of course she does. I have her eyes, her hair, her smile, and her fair skin—but Mom isfromSouth Korea. I’ve lived in Manhattan since the day I was born. She’s the final authority on the best, most authentic Korean food in the city.
“No, it’s your birthday dinner. You choose. Galbi Grill has better LA Galbi, but Pajeon has better Jjamppong.”
“Hey,” I say softly into the phone.
“Yes?”
I sigh. “You know, when you were my age, you were married, had a master’s degree, and you had me. Is it lame that I’m aboutto be twenty-seven and I’m still spending my birthday dinner with my mom?”
She’s silent for too long, I’m sure concocting a response that won’t hurt my fragile feelings. “There’s no shame in the fact that I’m your favorite person in the world. Do you want to know why?”
I roll my eyes. “Why?”
“Because you’re my favorite person, too.”
She’s so cheesy. Exactly the way a mom should be. I can’t help but smile big into the phone. “The end.”
She lets out a sweet hum. “All these years… You’re still doing that?”
It’s been a habit of mine since I was a little girl. Whenever I hear the perfect closing line, the one worthy of a happily-ever-after, I just have to add, “the end.”
The barista suddenly lights up with a wide, toothy grin on her face. She’s staring right at me, a brand-new woman, seemingly enthused to take my order. She makes a beeline to me at the register. “I have to go, Mama. Let’s do Galbi Grill at eight o’clock?”
“Sounds great.”
“See you tomorrow.” I end the call before checking the time once more.
1:13 p.m.
Dangit.Not good. Not good at all.
No, it’s fine, I assure myself. Maybe a prior meeting went late, or Dane stepped in gum just up the block and is currently cleaning off his shoe. There are a million and one excuses for him running a few minutes behind. He’s Dane-freaking-Spellman. There’s no choice—he’s forgiven.
“Hi, what can I get you?” According to the crooked name tag on her brown apron, the barista’s name is April. Sheissmiling, but not at me. Following her gaze, I glance over my shoulder.Too focused on my phone call, I didn’t realize I now have company in line.
I quickly give the man behind me a once-over. My stomach flutters uncomfortably as I register why the barista’s mood suddenly improved. He’s tan, tall, and has neatly combed dark hair. Gun to my head, I couldn’t conjure up a sexier guy. His strong jaw is cleanly shaved, and his haircut is fresh. He’s definitely attractive, but admittedly the most noticeable thing about him is the magenta backpack slung around one shoulder, and his hand, which is securely attached to a little girl’s.She’s three? Four, maybe?Her eyes are glued to the glass bakery case. She’s practically drooling as she bounces in place with excitement, making her honey-blond hair dance.
I check his left hand.Ringless.
I snap my attention back to the barista before the man catches me gawking. I wasn’t really looking at him anyway…more so his daughter. I struggle to write the mannerisms of kids in my stories. Whenever I see a child, especially a little blond-haired, blue-eyed cutie patootie, I try to pay attention—how they point, smile, or wiggle in place when they are excited about something. I don’t want it to be so painfully obvious in my writing that motherhood might as well be a different language for me.
“Anything to eat?” the barista asks.
“Oh, yes. One kitchen sink cookie, but can you pack it to go? And then two flat whites for here.”
The barista scoots a table tent number across the counter. “Any flavors?”
