My knight in kinky boots, rescuing me again.
The dull ache behind my eyes had morphed into a full-blown headache. The checkered pattern of Mom’s tablecloth danced in rotating spirals. I now fully understood why sleep deprivation was used as torture.
“Just a few hot rollers. And my neighbor Carol gave me a new set of highlights…” Mom flicked her hair mid-sentence and froze. “Nora Rose,” she said so loud I flinched.
She was staring past me. At the spot where I’d set down the last plate.
For anyone else, it would’ve just been an ordinary table—set for three, with a gorgeous-smelling apple pie at its center like an offering to a German deity.
But for my mother, I’d just declared Dad never existed.
The head of the table was, and always had been, his. Not hers. Not Otis’s. Certainly not mine.
I wasn’t sure if it was the lack of sleep or the constant reminder of what a disappointment I was, but I snapped.
“It’s just a plate, Mom. No one is sitting there. I think it’s time?—”
“I decide when it’s time.”
Color rushed to her cheeks as if her own outburst startled her. Her bottom lip trembled. “This is my house. Don’t you—” Her voice caught mid-sentence. The heat in her face slowly faded. Otis shrank back into the shadows of the kitchen.
I adjusted the place setting, guilt already blooming. She tried. I knew she did.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“I don’t understand what’s going on with you today.” She smoothed her apron and flicked her hair back, the perfect mask sliding back into place. “You don’t seem like yourself. Let me set you up with?—”
“I’m already dating someone,” I blurted, the words tumbling out before I could stop them.
Mom’s eyes widened. Otis’s eyes widened. I’m sure mine did too.
“You are?” Her voice was a hopeful whisper.?
“Yes.” Might as well dig the grave deep enough to lie in comfortably.
She clasped her hands together, completely forgetting the plates. I could see how hard she was trying not to look relieved that her only daughter wouldn’t end up a crazy cat lady.
“Tell me everything. What’s his name? What does he do?”
I shot Otis a panicked look. He shrugged behind her back, mouthingYou fix this mess.
“John,” I said, grabbing the first name that came to mind. “John Kater.”
Otis mouthedWTF.
I gripped the cutlery in front of me, trying to look super chill and very hungry.
“John,” Mom repeated with a sigh, lowering herself into the chair across from me. “What a nice, old-fashioned name. How old is he?”
I blinked. I could invent a fictional John—one that lived only in my head—or I could just pick a real one who shared the name. My brain, of course, chose chaos. And maybe half a lie was better than a whole one? Probably not.
“He’s thirty-four. A writer.”
Otis sat next to me and pinched my leg, like he was checking if the real Nora had been replaced by an alien clone.
Mom’s face lit up so brightly we could’ve turned off the lights and still had daylight.
“You had a date last night, didn’t you?”
