Page 13 of Allure

“Yes, dear.”

“Why?”

“Well, I was talking to Sylvia, and she was talking about what a nice dinner she had to send off her daughter to college, and I know we did have a nice meal here in Florida, but… you’re so far away, and I miss you already. The house is just so big and lonesome without you… and your father… but if you have plans already… you probably do…”

No one can guilt trip like my mom can. No one.

I wearily rub my forehead. “Sure, yeah, fine. Whatever.”

“Great,” she chirps, not at all picking up on my reluctance. “I made dinner reservations for us for seven at Bruno’s.”

Of course she made reservations. She’s just like my father, thinking I’ll cave and bend to their every whim.

“Bruno’s?”

"It's a fine-dining Italian restaurant. I know how much you love Italian food."

I do, but I just had Italian food. I don’t bother to mention that, though, and tell her I’ll be there before seven.

My mom has a knack for being late for everything. I’ve always hated that, so I strive to be ten minutes early everywhere. I’m not surprised that I get there first.

She climbs out of the taxi and beams at me. Like before, I wait by my car.

“I wasn’t sure what to expect, buying a car without seeing it first, but this is a beaut!” she gushes. “Do you like it? You do, don’t you?”

“Yeah, it’s not too bad. Come on.”

We’re late for the reservation because of her, but they seat us immediately, tucked in a back corner.

“Order whatever you want,” she says, “and you can have a few sips of my wine if you want. I specifically asked for this spot.”

I force a smile. I’ve never been big on alcohol. I don’t need to drink to look cool, but my mom likes to try to be hip or whatever.

After we order, my mom reaches across the table toward me, but I don’t take her hands, keeping them in my lap. “If only we were sitting at a table for three and not two.” Her dark eyes well with tears.

I don’t have her eyes. Mine are light blue, just like my father’s.

My eyes also don’t well whenever my father is mentioned. It’s not as if he died last week. He died when I was ten.

“Your father would be so proud of you,” she continues.

Before she can drone on and on about my father, I blurt out, “Classes start tomorrow.”

The waiter comes over and pours my mom’s wine and hands me a glass of iced water.

My mom lifts her wine glass toward me, but I shake my head.

“Classes,” I remind her.

“You don’t have to be such a good girl all the time,” my mom says. “Let your hair down some. Have fun. Speaking of having fun… did you go to any of the orientations? Did you see any good-looking boys?”

I close my eyes, so I don't roll them. "I'm not here for that, Mom," I say firmly.

“You won’t want to be alone forever,” she warns. “Why not be happy? Date around. I’m not saying you have to marry the first man you date, but… You don’t really tend to date much at all.” She hesitates. “Are you interested in boys? Girls? You aren’t one of those asexual types, are you?”

I wearily rub my forehead. This conversation isn't any better than talking about my father, who wasn't a saint no matter how much my mom likes to pretend he had been.

“I’m definitely not asexual,” I assure her. “I’m not gay. I mean, I’ll appreciate a beautiful girl for her beauty, but I don’t want to invite a girl to my bed.”

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