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“You can take off now,” I tell her. “I’ve got the dishes.”
Her brow lifts. “I’ll clean up and then head out,” she says again, albeit more firmly.
Backbone.
Yeah, she and I are going to get along just fine.
Still, if she really does have a test to study for, I should?—
“Mom!”
Tiff grins.
I sigh. Know that Rox is about to keep me busy.
“Fine,” I mock grumble. “You win. You can wash the dishes.”
Tiff salutes and we turn for the kitchen.
“Moooom!” Rox hollers, drawing my moniker out to approximately seven syllables.
“Coming, baby!” I holler back, unable to smother my bemused smile.
“Queen Rox calls,” Tiff says, tone light, but as we start to move down the hall, something crosses her face and she slows to a stop.
“What is it?” I ask when she doesn’t say anything.
Her chest rises and falls on a breath. “You asked how Stefan and I met.”
I study her, wonder why her expression has gone more than a little serious. “Yeah, honey, I did.” I bump her shoulder with mine, curious for sure, but not if it’s a painful topic. I can be patient…and pry it out of her later. “But, truly, it doesn’t matter to me.”
She makes a face.
“I solemnly swear,” I say lightly. “I trust his judgment. And you,” I add, not wanting her to think that just because Stefan cleared it, I’d let anyone around my kid. Plus, she’s been around long enough that I trust her too.
I wouldn’t have allowed Rox to spend so much time with her if I didn’t.
“Thanks,” she says quietly. “That means a lot.” A breath. “But I thought you should know?—”
“Mom!”
“Roxie. Christ,” I mutter. “Sorry, Tiff, but I should?—”
“We met at a cancer support group,” she blurts.
I freeze. “Oh,” I whisper, all but skidding to a halt, guilt eating at my insides. “I’m sorry, honey. Stefan’s a good resource to have when it comes to that. After everything he went through with his mom, I know that he can give you some great advice?—”
She frowns, opens her mouth.
“MOM!”
“Jesus, Rox!” I call, moved past amused with my little munchkin and drifting straight into irritated. “I said I’ll be right there.” Then I turn back to Tiff. “What is it, honey?”
Her expression is unfathomable.
And I don’t know her well enough yet, so I can’t tell if she wants to talk, or wants to run away.
In the end, she does neither, just reaches over and squeezes my arm again. “I’d better get to those dishes. I’ve got an essay to write this afternoon.”
