Page 73 of Told You So
“I’m glad I could be helpful.” I can see it in my mom’s eyes—a sense of purpose. It lightens her expression and her eyes smile. I don’t know if my dad notices those things anymore or if he even cares, but it makes me happy.
“So, this cookie business,” I say, inching closer to the cookie plate. “Are they strictly an after-dinner snack or...?”
“You can haveonenow.” She chuckles softly and pats my shoulder. “How can I resist that handsome smile of yours?”
“I wish everyone thought that,” I semi-joke.
My mom’s brow furrows, and I don’t like the sudden sympathy in her expression. “So, you’re still not dating then?” she asks, folding her fabric napkins just the way she likes them for the table.
“No, we’re not dating,” I say easily enough. “I don’t really know what we are.”
“I see.”
“You do? Because I sure as hell don’t.”
“Language, Nicholas.” My mom opens the fridge and pulls out two brand new jars of pickles.
My salivary glands kick into overdrive. “Are those for me?”
“Of course they are. Do you think I’m going to eat two jars of Claussen’s on my own?”
I snort. “Icould.”
“I’m aware,” she grumbles. “They were on sale at the grocery store, so I picked up a couple.” She nods to the cookies. “Put them with the rest of your things. I don’t want you to forget them.”
“Oh, I won’t. You got the best ones.”
“So you’ve told me.”
I scoot my to-go pile to the end of the counter, out of the way, and my mom points to the cupboard. “Pull out plates and glasses for dinner, Nick, and set the table, please.” She holds out her fabric napkins. “Use the nice ones this time.”
I do as she says, but part of me thinks pretending we’re going to have a nice dinner together is stupid. They don’t have to keep up the charade anymore, it just makes me uncomfortable.
“Did you see the roses your father brought me?”
I glance at the vase on the buffet and the white roses that fill it.
“Are you guys working things out or something?” I ask, because it’s weird that he’s still getting her flowers and they’re acting so normal, when everything is anything but.
Then the doorbells rings and my mom hurries toward the door; my dad jogs back down the stairs.
“Just in time,” he says and pays the delivery girl. He brings the takeout into the dining room and sets it on the table. Clapping his hands together, he says, “Ravioli, salad, and pesto bread sticks. Dinner is served.”
“It smells delicious,” my mom coos. “I’m ravenous.” She opens the plastic lids. The smell of rich Italian herbs waft over the table and my stomach rumbles again. “Serve yourselves,” she says and disappears into the kitchen. She returns with an uncorked bottle of rosé, and I feel a pang of sadness, remembering how things were just a few days ago, how they used to be.
“Would anyone care for a glass?” she asks as she opens the curio cabinet.
“Please,” my dad says, scooping food onto my mom’s plate for her.
I glance between them, awed by whatever is going on right now, and shake my head. “No, I’m good, thanks.”
“Suit yourself, it’s Saturday after all.” She pulls out a glass for her and my dad. “Are you going to work tonight, sweetheart?”
I smooth my napkin in my lap. “Yeah, at eight.”
“Well then, I won’t be a bad influence on you, not tonight, at least.” She smiles at me, knowingly. I like to have a glass of wine with her now and again, but only with her. It’s sort of our thing.
“So, Nicky,” my dad starts, “how is your project going up at the ranch?”
