I rub my hands together to warm them but stop because even my fingers hurt. “It might take me until next year to thaw out.”
“You mean all those kisses from Oliver didn’t warm you up?” Mom asks, buckling her seat belt. “I saw you two canoodling all through the light display.”
I snort. “What does that word even mean? Do regular people canoodle? I feel like I only ever hear about that word in reference to famous people. Like George Clooney. Or Leonardo DiCaprio.”
“I bet George is a good canoodler.”
“I say again, what does that mean?”
“You know,” she says, moving her hands as though she’s pulling her thoughts from thin air, “it’s like a cuddle. A snuggle.”
“You sure about that?” I arch an eyebrow at her, biting back a grin. “Because remember that time you said you had an out-of-control beaver?”
She gasps and swats my arm. “How was I supposed to know people used that word to describe their hoo has?”
“You said it so seriously too.” I dissolve into a fit of giggles. “And it wasn’t a beaver, it was a groundhog.”
“Well, whatever it was, the little shit tore up my flower beds and ate all my herbs,” she chokes out through her laughter. “Okay, forget the canoodle. You two seemed like you were having a good time.”
“We were,” I say, glancing in my rearview mirror as I back out of my spot. “Speaking of, you and Ron looked pretty chummy.”
“I still can’t believe you invited him.” She’s shaking her head in feigned annoyance, but joy radiates from her rosy cheeks.
I peer over at her while I join the long line of cars, waiting for my turn to pull onto the highway. “You didn’t seem to mind all that much when you asked him to dinner tomorrow.”
“I did do that, didn’t I?” She grits her teeth as she smooths her hands over her pants.
“You did.”
“Is that…Was it weird for me to do that?” she asks, her voice small and uncertain.
“What do you mean? Weird how?”
She shrugs and shifts in her seat. “These dinners are usually reserved for family. Ron’s not family.”
“Well, neither is Oliver, and this will be his second dinner with us.”
“But you like him.”
“And you like Ron,” I say, and her gaze drops to her lap. “Don’t you?”
She nods.
“It’s not a marriage proposal,” I say, my tone gentle. “It’s just dinner.”
“You don’t think it’ll upset Ben and Lucy by inviting him, do you?”
“What? Why would you think that?” I massage the back of my neck, attempting to dislodge the rock that’s formed there.
She leans her head against the seat. “Will they think it’s too soon? Will they think I’ve lost my mind?”
“Of course not.”
“I’m serious, Lindsey,” she says, facing me with wide, worried eyes.
“Oh my God, Mom. Stop. You’re spiraling.” I reach over and squeeze her arm. “I think we all want the same thing.”
“And what’s that?” she asks as I inch the car forward.
