Page 14 of Bad Love

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“My turn,”Rory chimes in as we board the subway train. “Okay. Which of these things is not like the other…” he says in a singsongvoice.

The train is a mix of people in athletic apparel and nicer clothes, some families, lots of young singles. We take a seat across from a gray-haired woman with a cane as my son cranes his neck to take in every inch of the traincar.

“Her,” Rory decides after a minute, nodding to the woman. “She’s old, and everyone else on the train isyoung.”

“Honey, we don’t point out people as strange. Thingsonly.”

“Why?”

His sweet face implores me, and I think of the right way to explain. “Because people like to fit in and not be called out asdifferent.”

His fine red brows pull together over dark eyes, his pert nose wrinkling. “But the whole game is finding things that aredifferent.”

“Things. Not people. People have feelings. And sometimes if you say what you see in people and it’s not what they want you to see, it can hurtthem.”

He shakes his head. “Bloodyhell.”

I bite my cheek and pretend not to hear him. He’s a sensitive kid, and I pick my battles. Telling him not to swear can wait until the next time he saysit.

“That’s why I like food,” my kid declares. “It makes more sense thanpeople.”

I smile. “I know you like food. How did you like boatingtoday?”

“It was okay.” He toes the pole with hissneaker.

“We could try something else next month. Maybekites?”

“Mom…” He sighs. “I know you have your adventures list. But I don’t think it’s forme.”

I bite my lip. “It’s good to try new things and find what youlike.”

“I don’t need things to like. I know what Ilove.” He nods for emphasis. “And there’s no more room in my heart after you and pasta,Mom.”

Oh, man. Kids say the craziest things, but this one has my chestaching.

Since he learned to read, he’s been pulling down my cookbooks. His first visit to the Food Network online transformed interest into passion. When he discovered Gordon Ramsay, he’d arrived atNirvana.

“You know what, Rory? The thing about love is there’s always more of it. It doesn’t run out.” He looks skeptical, and Ilaugh.

Two hours later, Rory and I are back at home, and I’m on the phone with myparents.

"How are the boys?" I ask, meaning mybrothers.

"They're good. Robert's just left for his mission trip. William's working on an oil rig. I wish he would settle down already. I worry about him outthere."

My brothers are younger by two and six years. Robert has a wife and two kids. Will’s the baby of the family, still figuring out what he wants todo.

"Has he brought any girlsaround?"

"No. But I know he would tell us before hedid."

“Because they're the good kids,”is what she doesn't say. They do things the right way, in the rightorder.

She continues to tell me about what's new at the church, then in the neighborhood. She rhymes off every family, most of which we've known since my brothers and I were small. That’s how it works, being a pastor’s kid. You know everyone and theirbusiness.

On one hand, it’s beautiful, being so connected in the community. My father always said, “God never closes the door.” So, it seemed that we didn’t either. Members of the church would come all day and all night, seeking advice or company, and all day and all night, my father—and by extension, all of us—was there forthem.

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