“Peace isn’t a dirty word, Aspen,” she counters, her tone shifting into that gentle, motherly tone that usually precedes a lecture on my biological clock. “It’s stability. It’s knowing where you’ll be in ten years.”
I let out a sharp, dry laugh. “Mom, I know that you and I come from a different time and the idea of taking a risk is a dirty word to you. But, some of the most successful people in the world got to where they because they took risks. They chose the unknown.”
“I’m sure homeless people don’t choose poverty but there they are. Someone new ends up under a bridge every day because they took a risk. Risk is only a virtue if you can afford to lose.”
That stings, especially coming from the person who has always been my first best friend. Because yes, my mother is my best friend.
Lately, however, our relationship has undergone a series of subtle shifts. The tension started the moment I stopped letting her steer my life towardherdreams. Specifically, when I told her I wasn’t ready to throw everything into finding a husband just because I’d reached a “certain age.” The breech in our friendship deepened further when I announced I was using my savings to start a mobile nursing clinic. To her, risk isn't something Black women can afford when there is already so much stacked against us.
She’s always been the “cool” mom, the type who knows my favorite cocktail and my worst secrets. But at her core, she’s still traditional. She prefers I don't have sex until marriage and wishes I would settle down with a man of the cloth. And even though I’m the one who introduced her to her favorite vibrator, she still thinks it is just a placeholder for a husband. To her, a woman isn’t truly “taken care of” without a ring, a mortgage, and a hefty life insurance policy.
She raised me to be bold and smart, but also to possess the kind of enchanting sensuality that can command a room andbring a man to his knees. Normally, she would be the first person I’d tell about my Vegas tryst, even if she disagreed with it. We always saw eye to eye because, up until now, I lived exactly how she raised me to. She reserved her judgment because I never gave her a reason to use it.
But as the only one of her children to finally break rank, I’m driving her crazy. The judgment is coming in hot every chance she gets, though I know it’s only because she is worried about me.
I’m choosing to ignore the fact that I haven't exactly shared the details of my accidental marriage, the divorce, or my impending reality TV debut with her yet. Because that would only worry her some more.
“I’m not going to lose anything. I’ve got this,” I say, injecting as much confidence into my voice as possible.
“Are you still seeing that man you’ve been mentioning? Remember my dream I had. Time is winding up!”
“Okay, Bertha. Enough!” Her name isn’t actually Bertha. It’s Claudia. Bertha is what I call her when we’re out together in public to embarrass her. “Is Dad grilling this weekend? I could use a few rib bones for my lunch next week.”
“He is not! He needs to watch his blood pressure, and you need to stop encouraging him. I’ll be making baked chicken breast, if you’re so inclined.”
“Ew. Never mind,” I grimace.
She laughs as my call waiting beeps, flashing Tatum’s name. Relief washes over me.
“Mom, I have to go. Tatum is on the other line about work,” I say, not waiting for her to get the last word in.
“Let me know if you want to book our flights together for the Vineyard—”
“Okay! Bye, Mom!” I cannot think about the embarrassment and shame of all of this when it blows up in my face.
“Hey, girl! What are you doing calling me this early?”
“Good morning to you, too,” Tatum says with a hint of sass. “A girl can’t call her best friend at—” she pauses, “eight-thirty in the morning?”
“No. Because your high-maintenance ass doesn’t even take calls before ten!”
“You’ve got a point.” She says, dryly.
“Exactly. So, what’s up?”
“So...I know of a VIP client who needs a nurse with a certain set of skills.”
I drop my chin to my neck and my voice an octave lower. “Certain set of skills. Why do you sound so cryptic? Who is it?”
“They’re being very quiet about it. They need a specialized nurse who can maintain the highest level of confidentiality.”
“Okay,” I say slowly. “What’s the catch?”
“You have to meet with them to interview for the position.”
I furrow my brow. “What kind of interview?”
“Nothing crazy,” she insists. “They just want to make sure you’re a good culture fit.”
