“Enjoy,” the hostess says.
I nod. “Thank you.”
The second the hostess leaves, my mother rolls her eyes. “What’s with women pulling out chairs for other women these days? She think I can’t seat myself?”
“Just a courtesy,” I say neutrally, already shifting into diplomat mode.
Mom just hmmphs and lifts the menu to her eyes.
She made an effort; I can tell. The dark rinse jeans are probably the nicest ones she owns, with no hint of a hole or a stain anywhere, and she’s wearing a burgundy cable knit sweater that’s much too warm for the weather but which I’m almost certain I gave her for Christmas a few years ago. It looks lovely against her auburn hair. I’m inexplicably touched by her gesture.
“How is everyone?” I ask, trying to get her talking.
“Fine. They’re all fine.”
She lowers the menu and eyes me critically. “You gonna tell me about this secret wedding you and Armani had, or what?”
“What?” Heat rushes into my cheeks. “Who told you?”
“Sean heard something about it,” she says with a shrug.
That…actually makes sense. My brother runs in some shady circles, and I could easily see one of Sean’s “associates” bringing up the fact that his baby sister married into the mob. Which, of course that kind of gossip would be way too juicy to keep to himself.
“It wasn’t planned,” I tell her. “We were in Vegas and we just…did it on a whim.”
“Oh yeah? I figured it was a shotgun wedding. Minus the shotgun part, since you didn’t bother to tell us about it. Did that Bellanti knock you up? I thought I liked him okay.”
Fuck.
Before I can even begin to formulate an appropriate way to tell her the humiliating truth that yes, “that Bellanti” did knock me up, the waiter appears.
“Are we ready to order?” he asks, pouring fresh glasses of water for both of us.
Mom gets a torta sandwich with carnitas (I have no doubt she ordered it because it’s the cheapest thing on the menu, not because it’s what she really wants), and I get the filet mignon tacos—not because they’re actually what I want, either, but because I know they’ll be excellent and I want to send the leftovers home with her to enjoy later.
The second the waiter is gone, my mom looks me up and down and then nods to herself.
“So. You’re pregnant,” she states, as if I’ve copped to it already. “How far along?”
My jaw drops. There’s no denying it now, but my God. I was not expecting this.
“Um. I guess it’s almost ten weeks now,” I say, quickly doing the mental math.
“And is this something you want?” she asks bluntly.
Once again, I’m astounded.
“Yes,” I say.
She searches my eyes and then gives another nod. “Good. Is it something he wants?”
“I—I don’t know,” I blurt, still too disarmed to sidestep the question. “I’m not sure he knows what he wants.”
“Men.” She lets out a little annoyed sigh and then pats my hand. “You’ll figure it out. With or without him. You always find a way to land on your feet.”
All I can do is force a smile and try to not burst into tears. I’m not used to my mom offering words of comfort or kindness. This is the closest she’s ever come to saying she’s proud of me. Maybe she’s softening up in her later years. Or maybe she sees something of her younger self in me now. I’m right around the age that she was when she married my dad. I wonder if she’s saying the things that she wishes someone had said to her.
A basket of chips and salsa gets deposited on our table, and we both dig in.
