I’ve got twenty more minutes of footage to edit when my mom knocks on my cabin door. Gone are the days when I panic and shut down my laptop as soon as I hear the raps on the door, but by the same token I nearly always ensure I’m working with my screen facing away from the cabin’s door and window, just in case. Calmly I minimize the window and put my laptop to the side of me on my bed.
“Come in,” I say.
“You’ve got a special delivery,” Mom says, holding up a brown paper bag with branding I instantly recognize.
“What the… did you order in?” I ask, getting up.
“No, but somebody did.” Mom hands me the bag and I look inside. One chicken kale salad. And a side of garlic bread.
My grin is unstoppable.
“There’s a note, on the receipt,” Mom says and I pull the stapled piece of paper off the bag.
“‘Happy Valentine’s Day, you health freak. Hope you enjoy. I miss you almost as much as I miss Elvis Burgers, Maeve.’”
“She knows you well,” Mom says.
“She knows I like chicken kale salads, that’s all,” I say before questioning why I’m deflecting Mom’s comment.
“But this is better than flowers or chocolate, right? For you?” Mom leans against the doorway and rests her head on the wood. Her hair is all wrapped up on top of her head adorned with an abstract scarf that matches the shades of terracotta and yellow she’s wearing in her linen layers.
“I like flowers,” I say, thinking about the time I spent online picking a bouquet for Maeve.
“But not in the romantic way. That’s what you mean when you say you’re aromantic, isn’t it?” Mom’s voice is loose and fluid, but even so I can detect the intent hidden in it.
“Can I not just eat my salad in peace?”
She studies me for a moment and then pushes off the doorway. “Come into the kitchen and we’ll see."
After sending a quick thank you message to Maeve about the salad which she isn’t online to see – I assume still on the phone with her mom – I follow Mom inside and sit down at the kitchen table to eat. In a silence that still seems to speak volumes, my mom makes herself a ginger tea and then comes to sit beside me.
“I like seeing you happy,” she says eventually when I’m chewing my last mouthful.
I can’t help but roll my eyes as I put my fork down.
“I’m always happy,” I say.
“No,” she says slowly. “You’re always busy. And doing things for others. And I do think these things make you content, to a point, but I wouldn’t say you’re always happy.”
“But isn’t content better? I’m pretty sure striving for that over happiness is more realistic and probably healthier too.”
Mom stares at me as she cups her mug. “Don’t you want to be happy?”
“Iamhappy.”
“Fine. Don’t you want to behappier?”
“How could I possibly be happier?” I ask, but before the final word leaves my mouth I know I’ve asked the wrong thing.
“By actually being with Maeve.”
“Iamwith Maeve,” I point out before taking a large mouthful of water from my glass. “We are trying to build a relationship together.”
“Are you?” Mom asks and it’s like an arrow, sharp and perfectly aimed.
