Elaine has a whole army behind her.
When I climbed up the stairs to Mom’s days later after my shift, I didn’t think the first thing I’d see would be John Kater.
Mom had printed out the selfie I’d sent her and stuck it in a white porcelain frame adorned with kittens. It sat right between a picture of Dad and a so-hideous-it-was-almost-cute pink porcelain cat I’d gotten for her from a thrift store as an apology for forgetting his birthday.
Otis squealed when he spotted the framed picture. “Don’t they make a lovely pair?” he asked, stuffing his mouth with Black Forestgâteau.
I bit back a snarky remark and instead refreshed my inbox under the kitchen bar for the hundredth time that morning. Once again, I was greeted with spam mail and a reminder ofan open energy bill. The blurbs would be posted sometime later today.
When I looked up, my mother beamed. She had baked. I mean, she always baked. She was an I-can’t-sleep baker and an I’m-angry baker. But apparently, she was also a happy baker. And it hurt how new this side of her was to me.
Precisely the reason why I didn’t, nor ever would, tell her the truth about me and my imaginary celebrity boyfriend.
Also, thisgâteauwas to die for.
“You’ll have to bring John for dinner soon,” Mom said, kneading the dough for a pastry that was the base for some sort of vegetable pie.
“I'll ask him. He’s quite busy at the moment.”
“Ah, yes, he’s in Europe, isn’t he? You should have gone with him. It’d be good for you to visit your birthplace sometime.” She pointed at me with a ladle.
Something about what she’d just said bugged me.
“How do you know he’s in Europe?” Otis asked the question I was trying to form.
Mom wrapped up the dough and put it onto the sun-drenched window ledge to rise. “My neighbor helped me install Instant Gram.”
A big blob of gâteau fell off my fork and into my lap. “Crap.” I took a napkin to wipe the chocolate off my pale blue overalls, but the damage was done. I looked like a toddler who had just pooped her pants. “You have Instagram?”
My mom pointed her fine, arched nose to the ceiling. “I think it’s called Instant Gram.”
“Mom,” I said, a little too panicky.
“It’s so inspiring, isn’t it? All these people traveling. And, oh, did you know Martha Stewart has one of those photo pages too?”
Otis must have recognized that I was close to having an aneurysm. “Eva, do you… follow John?”
She untied her apron and hung it up on a paw-shaped hook on the flower-patterned wall. Finally, she took a spot opposite us on the kitchen bar.
“Yes,natürlich. Though I saw a lot of comments about thisVerlobteof his, this Bond girl?” Mom watched me from underneath her mascara-coated lashes.
Otis choked on his coffee.
My stomach dropped. I straightened. I know I was supposed to keep it a secret, but— “It’s just gossip, Mama. They aren’t really together. Press, you know.” I hid my face in the mug of coffee my mother had covered in whipped cream.
My mother put her delicate hand on top of mine, patting twice. “I just want you to be happy,Liebling. You know that, right? Don’t settle for being the woman on the side.”
Instead of rolling my eyes, I squeezed her too-thin fingers. “I won’t.”
The timer on the microwave beeped. She stood.
Otis leaned over to me, whispering, “Is it really? Fake?”
“None of your business,” I hissed under my breath.
“Uh-uh,” Otis said, tilting the whipped cream up and spraying it straight into his mouth.
“You’re a pig,” I said.
