Page 16 of Bad Love

My lips curve at his borderline-bossy tone as he reminds me of my technique. “Gotit.”

His gaze lifts from his work to meet mine, searching my face. A small hand brushes my cheek. “Okay,Mom?”

I swallow the lump in my throat. For a boy who claims not to understand people, he has a boatload of empathy. “I’m good. Let’s dothis.”

I take my time laying fresh noodles carefully in the bottom of the bakingdish.

Growing up, my actions were held to a high standard. I dealt with it until high school, when suddenly there were things more interesting thanGod.

I hid my burgeoning sexuality behind demure smiles. With the kind of subtle flirting that couldn't be mistaken as anything too forward. When my friends were groping in cars, I watched boys from adistance.

It workedbrilliantly.

Until itdidn't.

Rory's father was the perfect boy. Blake's family was involved in church. His father led youth group. Blake was chaste and good. His smile was full ofgrace.

The year I turned seventeen, he was also the sexiest Matthew in the history of Bible camp's end-of-summerplay.

After the one and only performance, I was deflowered on a blanket by theriver.

I got pregnant. We gotmarried.

A year later, he decided our lifestyle wasn't "God's plan" for him. Apparently, it was God's plan for me because I had a kid and no education and noincome.

While my parents didn't approve of us getting together, they seemed to vastly prefer it to the alternative of me raising Rory alone. But everything wentsouth.

And though I don’t like rehashing the details, when the dust settled, I was raising a kid on my own in NewYork.

Rory's my everything. I love him more than I thought it was possible to love anyone. I understand kids grow up in all kinds of situations, and I never want him to feel shortchanged of love or opportunities on account of the choices Imade.

"Bloodyhell!”

My head jerks up as visions of my kid missing appendages flood my panicked mombrain.

"Rory!" I say sternly when I see the only red substance in the kitchen is the sauce wemade.

He holds out a glass bottle I brought home from the store yesterday as if he’s holding up baby Simba at the start ofThe Lion King. “This olive oil is not coldpressed!"

I roll my eyes as my heartrate slows. "Okay, but just because Gordon Ramsay says the H-word, that doesn't mean you have to. There are better words in the English language to express yourfrustration."

He’s shaking his head before I finish. "Impossible."

"How do youfigure?"

"Gordon Ramsay's English. Don't you think he'dknow?"

* * *

After dinnerand putting my kid to bed, I get towork.

First there's a follow-up email from Nadine to the committee saying she’s put together a short list of themes for the talentshow.

Themes? Isn’t the themetalent?

I scan the list, each theme more ludicrous than the last. Her recommended option? "Leaders of Tomorrow." That's a lot of pressure for kids graduating from Velcroshoes.

But half a dozen other committee members have already agreed with her, so I shake my head and hit ReplyAll.

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