The jollof is perfect. Mom would approve. I eat half the plate and put the rest in the fridge next to the untouched bottle of wine. After dinner, restlessness plagues me. Harper was right. It’s no big deal, except that it feels like a big deal. It feels like I’m making the same mistake twice.
My phone buzzes at nine-thirty.
Logan: Just got in the car. Dinner was good. Nolan says hi. How was your night?
I type back:Quiet. Glad you had a good time.
I read my own reply before I send it. It's cold and short. Nothing like the texts I've been sending him all week, the ones with photos, jokes and heart emojis.
I know I'm pulling away. I can feel myself doing it, building distance brick by brick, and the rational part of my brain is screaming at me to stop because this man told me he loved me and he meant it.
But the other part of me, the part that sat on her mother's couch at eighteen and waited for a call that never came, is louder tonight.
I send the text.
He replies:What did you end up doing?
Me: Ate dinner. Watched a movie. I’m off to bed. Goodnight.
I turn my phone over and go to the bathroom and wash my face. Cleanser, toner, serum, moisturizer.
I get into bed and stare at the ceiling, and I know I'm being unfair. One canceled dinner is not a betrayal. A man having dinner with his family is not a crime. Dom had an announcement. Logan went. That is what normal families do.
But we are not a normal family. We are Jasmine Bennett and Logan Shaw, and the last time his family came first, I lost him for a decade.
I turn over and close my eyes. Sleep doesn't come for a long time.
Sunday morning,I drive to Long Island. Mom's boutique opens at eleven, and I'm there at ten-forty-five, leaning against the door with two coffees when she turns the lock.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” she says with a smile. “But I’m glad you’re here.”
“I missed you.”
She gives me a look as I follow her inside. The shop smells like lavender and fresh fabric. She turns on the lights, fires up the steamer, and starts unpacking a box of new arrivals while I sit on the stool behind the counter and drink my coffee.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
I know what she means. We were together yesterday, and we had no plans for me to come to Long Island today.
“I’m good,” I say.
She holds up a blouse, checks the seams, and sets it aside. Then, she looks at me over the top of her reading glasses. “You drove to Long Island on a Sunday morning to sit in my shop at ten-forty-five. You're not fine.”
“I just wanted to see you, Mom.”
“You saw me yesterday.”
“So now I can't see you two days in a row?”
She puts down the blouse, takes off her glasses, and folds them slowly. “Baby, I have known you for twenty-eight years.You hold your coffee with both hands when you're upset. You're holding your coffee with both hands.”
She's right. Both hands wrapped around the cup, fingers laced, knuckles tight.
“I'm just tired,” I say. “Work has been a lot.”
She studies me for a long moment. “You know where I am when you're ready to talk,” she says.
“I know.”
