Page 7 of One Hotlanta Night
“I didn’t even get to that part yet. How did you know?” she asks, pretending to be offended.
“Because you do this all the time.” I try to keep my tone gentle and not as irritated as I feel. She latches onto every available young woman the minute they step through the church doors, convinced she’s met her future daughter-in-law. The number of times she has “just so happened” to invite a single girl out to lunch with us could buy me another Swiss Army watch.
She’s convinced that the love of my life will come from our home church. Can’t blame her motherly wishes, but that’s not a requirement for me. I need someone with fire and passion to match my own, more than what I’ve seen in any of the girls there. She means well, but this is the last thing I need right now, especially after being in my mental funk all morning.
“Listen, cariño, I know it seems like I’m too invested in your love life,” she starts and I try to hide my snort. “But it’s because I want to see you happy. To have someone take care of you.”
“Mami, I don’t need someone to take care of me. That’s my job.” I shush her before she can start to protest. We are not on the same wavelength when it comes to what I need. I love her, but her ideas of care are fairly antiquated. “Even if I meet someone at church, it doesn’t really make sense to date them. They’d be up in Charlotte, and I’m in Atlanta, remember?”
“If it’s the right one, that won’t matter,” she says confidently.
I bark out a laugh. “Come on now, Mom. That’s not fair to whoever it is you want me to meet.”
“If it’s the right one, she and you will do whatever it takes to be together.”
I can’t blame her for saying so. My mom and dad are a true story of love at first sight. He’d heard about her through his friends, and those same friends were quick to inform him when her boyfriend had forgotten her birthday. So my dad put on his best suit, bought the biggest bouquet of flowers he could find, and showed up at her doorstep to ask her to dinner that same night. They married a mere four months later and eventually had me and my sister, Isabella.
She was forced to give up her successful career as a physical therapist after the fibromyalgia developed, and it hurt to see her once-vibrant body betray her. But her larger-than-life personality never wavered, even when she had to give up doing the things she’d once loved. My dad adored her, no matter how much the pain had changed what she could or could not do. He would come home from working long shifts, and rub her neck and shoulders if it was one of the few days she could tolerate being touched.
“I just want to see you happy,mijo. You’re too good of a young man to have to go through life alone.” Like I need the reminder that I’m twenty-five and still haven’t foundheryet.
“I know, Mami. And I appreciate it. But I’m okay, really. And when I come up next time, I really don’t want to make small talk with another unsuspecting girl that I can’t even commit to a date with. It’s not fair to me or her. So please, can we just have dinner and church like we normally do?”
She sighs, but seems to accept what I’m saying when she replies, “Okay,mijo. I’ll tell the Harrisons maybe another time.”
I mentally smack my head as I realize she had already set something up. Better to nip this in the bud. “Thank you, Mami. Can I tell Connor and Sebastian that they’re invited to Sunday lunch?”
“You know you always can. Paquita is cooking her famous Sunday roast.”Yes, I mentally fist pump. Paquita’s roast is the very best, and I’m eternally grateful that she taught me and Isabella all of her tricks. It saves money cooking at home, sure, but it’s also the very best food on the planet.
I tell my mother that I love her and stand, unwinding the cord from my fingers before setting the phone back in its cradle. Didn’t realize how agitated I’d become after fending off another of her blind date attempts.
Exhaling, I lean back against the counter, folding my arms. I know I’m going to find her, my girl,my wife, here in Atlanta, not Charlotte. It was part of the reason I took this transfer to a new office. Plus, after what had happened with my boss’s son…
Leaving Charlotte and all the baggage of my past in order to build a new life on my own, without any family pressures, was the best opportunity I could have asked for in that fallout.
I got to keep my job.
And my gut tells me I’ll find the love of my life here.
But, God, where is she?
Vivian
late july 2001
“Hmm, this could be a new place to try,” Claire points to the Yahoo ad.
It’s amazing what the internet can do for us these days. Used to be Prodigy games that constituted as cool and the onset of chat rooms were the new icebreakers for finding friends. Now instead of waiting for the weekly paper to come out, we can just type “fun stuff to do this weekend” into a search bar.
“L’Aventura,” she reads from the square screen. Computers have come a long way from those clunky suitcase-looking things my mom used at her office, but they are still a bulky setup. The monitor and CPU tower takes up the entire desk, never mind the clickety-clackety keyboard. “Atlanta’s newest dance club featuring Latin rhythms, wicked cool DJs, and the smoothest reposado outside of Cuba,” she continues. “Vivian, we should totally do this!”
“For the music or the tequila?” I tease.
“Well, yeah,duh, but also because I’ve never done Latin dance before, have you?”
I shake my head. “Girl, the only Latin I’ve seen was inDirty Dancingand you know it.” She laughs. It’s one of our favorite movies to rewatch after a long shift. “Maybe some ballroom competitions on TV, but that’s about it. What would we even wear?” I peek over her shoulder and the only image I see is a clip art silhouette of a couple dancing, the lady’s long skirt flying up in a flourish. Atlanta clubs tend to have their own dress codes, but I don’t know if I’m down for that.
“Think I could get away with a sparkly outfit and slicked-back hair if I was doing the tango?” She giggles.
