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Palo was upset about my leaving, but happy for me all the same. I also had tea with Miss Ina this morning, who was funny and sweet in her grumpy-old-woman way.
“Coming!” I shout, jolting myself out of my thoughts. I don’t even bother looking through the peephole; I just unlatch the lock and open it. I start to tell Antonio that I’m not dressed, that he will have to wait for me. My mouth drops open when I see my mother standing outside my door.
“Mom?” I frown.
What’s she doing here?
She lives on Long Island, so it’s not like she just drops by often.
“Libby.” She moves past me, tosses her purse on the couch, then takes off her coat and tosses it, too, before she crosses her arms over her snowflake-embroidered, sweater-covered chest.
“What’s going on? What are you doing here? Is everything okay? Where’s Dad?” I ask, each question in rapid succession. I don’t even stop to take a breath.
“Apparently there’s a lot going on. I’m here because my youngest daughter is keeping secrets from me. Everything is not okay, but your father is at home, in front of the TV where I left him.”
“Is this about the pizzeria?” I ask, figuring that’s the only thing I’ve kept from her.
Okay . . . so I haven’t told her about Antonio, but technically there is nothing to tell.
“Yes, it’s about the pizzeria!” she shouts, uncrossing her arms and planting her hands on her hips.
“Mom . . .”
“Do not ‘Mom’ me, Libby Alice Reed. You went to your dad and asked him to help you, and you didn’t even mention anything about it to me.”
“I was going to tell you,” I say, shifting uncomfortably.
“When? I’ve known about it for a week now, and you still haven’t even mentioned it, although we’ve talked every day!” She shouts the last word.
“I’m sorry. I’ve been a little busy.” I hold my hands out in front of me in a placating manner, hoping to calm her down. Her eyes move to my hands, then drop down the length of me and narrow.
“Busy doing what? And why are you getting dressed up? Where are you going?”
Oh lord.
I do not want to tell my mom that I have a date tonight. Seeing as how she’s standing in my living room and Antonio is supposed to be here soon, though, I realize I probably won’t have a choice.
“Ugh . . .”
“That is not an answer.”
“I have a date.”
I bite the inside of my cheek.
“A date?”
“Yes, a date. And he’s supposed to be here soon, so if you could please get out whatever it is you need to say about the pizzeria before he comes, that would be awesome. He doesn’t know that I’m going to buy it—and I don’t want him to know about it yet.”
“Why don’t you want him to know?”
Crap.
“I . . . well . . . it’s his parents’ shop. And . . .” I pause, trying to get my thoughts in order. “Everything has been a little weird between us. I don’t want to tell him I’m buying the shop and rock the boat. I know how he feels about the pizzeria, and I don’t want him to try to talk me out of it.”
“Seems to me you’ve gotten good at keeping secrets from people.”
Have I?
I’m not sure. I know that lately I’ve been more closed off with things going on in my life, but I don’t think I’m keeping secrets.
“Mom, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the pizzeria. I promise I was going to tell you.”
“You have always been open with me about everything,” she says.
Guilt fills the pit of my stomach. I have always talked to her about anything and everything going on in my life. She never made me feel like I couldn’t share—no matter what was going on or how embarrassed it might make me.
“You’re right,” I whisper.
“And . . .” She stops speaking when tears fill her eyes. “I feel like I’m losing each of you.”
“You’re not losing us, Mom.”
I close the space between us and wrap my arms around her.
“Fawn got married in Vegas. Vegas, of all places! And then Mac finds out she’s pregnant and doesn’t tell me. While you . . . you buy a pizzeria and don’t even mention it to me.”
“I haven’t bought it yet, Mom. It’s a long process. There is a lot of paperwork before it’ll be officially mine.”
“Whatever. You know what I mean,” she grumbles, sniffling.
“I think we are all just trying to figure out who we are on our own. Don’t get me wrong—we love you. But sometimes you can be a bit overbearing when it comes to our lives and your opinions about them.”
“Overbearing?” she whispers, sounding offended. I cringe, knowing that wasn’t the right word to use with her, even if it is the correct word.
