Page 43 of No Greater Love
"How long have you been 'seeing each other'?" I could hear the air quotes.
I glanced toward the living room where Nate and Paige were locked in an intense game of Scrabble. Three months since that night. Three months since he'd broken down in my arms. Three months of carefully navigating whatever this was between us.
"Long enough," I replied.
"Mmm-hmm." The sound was loaded with implication. "And this man is...?"
"A nurse at Metro. He works in the ER with me."
"His name, Tasha Marie."
I sighed. "Nathan Crawford."
“‘Nathan’?”
“Yes. ‘Nathan’.”
A pause. "And how old is Nathan Crawford?"
I closed my eyes briefly. Here we go. "Thirty-nine."
"Thirty-nine." She repeated the number flatly. "And you're twenty-seven."
"Yes, Mom. I can do basic subtraction."
"Don't get smart with me. And his child? Where's the mother?"
"She left when Paige was a baby. Nate's raised her alone. She's eleven. She's great." I surprised myself with the defensiveness in my voice.
Another long pause. "And is he...?"
"White? Yes, Mom. Does that matter?"
"You know very well it doesn't matter to me. But I'm not everyone who's going to be at this reunion. There's Uncle Earl to consider, and your cousin Janelle just went through that awful breakup with?—"
"Mom, if it's going to be a problem?—"
"Don't you put words in my mouth, young lady. I didn't say it was a problem. I'm just preparing you." Her voice softened marginally. "Are they important to you? This man and his daughter?"
The question caught me off guard. Were they? The answer came easier than I expected.
"Yes. They are."
"Then they're welcome. I'll tell your Aunt Patricia to make extra of her mac and cheese. That child's too skinny in the pictures you sent."
I blinked. "What pictures?"
"The ones from the science fair. You texted them to me last week. Don't act like you didn't."
I had. I'd been so proud of Paige's volcano project, not because it was spectacular (it wasn't), but because I'd helped her fix the wiring the night before when Nate was on shift. It had felt... significant.
"Right," I said. "Well, we'll be there. Sunday at noon."
"One small thing," Mom said, her casual tone setting off immediate warning bells. "Your father's bringing Deanna."
My grip tightened on the wooden spoon. My father's third wife. Twenty-nine years old. Two years older than me.
"Great," I said flatly.
