I nod. “Yes.”
Her eyes widen with understanding. “And you’re a Venn.”
“…technically…”
“Mama.”
“Jas’.”
“Did this man come here forme, meetyouand decide he was marryingyou?”
“Jasmine Venn.”
“OH MY GOD!”
“Stop.”
“OH MYGOD!”
“Young lady, pick up your cheese from my floor. Stop screaming. And stopsmiling, why are you smiling…”
“MAMA!”
“Jasmine, this isserious. It’snot funny.”
She smirks. “Was he hot?”
“Jasmine.”
“Was. He. Hot?”
I shake my head, looking away, trying to keep my composure. I am not letting my kid see how Adam Maksimov affected me. “That is not the point.”
“Oh myGod, he was hot!”
“Girl, pick up the string cheese.”
“Was he hot or was he hot?”
“He was…pick up thestring cheese, Jasmine…”
She giggles. “You’re stuttering.”
“I amnotstuttering.”
“Mama, yourwhole face.”
“Jasmine Maria Venn, so help me God…”
“Tell me everything right now.Everything.”
She has her elbows on the table, her chin in her hands, her eyes the size of dinner plates, and she isdelighted. My daughter, who is supposed to be helping me think this through, iscackling.The string cheese is still on the floor. And I can feel a hysterical laugh trying to climb up my throat. I press my lips together, refusing to let it out because if I laugh I am going tocry, and if I cry I am going tocome undone, and I cannot come undone, not before this man gets back into my house.
“He’s Scottish,” I finally let out.
Jasmine gasps.
“He’s what?”
