He traces my bottom lip with his thumb. “Are you feeling jet-lagged?”
“Is that why I feel like shit?”
He grins. “Could be one of ten reasons. You want to meet my mom?”
“Oh God. I should wash my hair.”
He rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “You two are alike. She won’t care or notice.”
I roll out of bed and stretch my tired arms above my head, hoping to send a bit of life to my groggy brain. I give my hair and my teeth a speedy brush, changing into jeans and one of my dad’s old sweaters. It’s a green knitted number with a hole in the sleeve, and it probably could do with a wash, but I don’t really care. I needed it with me, need to feel close to him. In a way, it feels like taking him with me to meet Alex’s mom.
“She’s going to be disappointed,” I say, staring at myself in the small mirror above the sink in the examination room.
Alex appears behind me, hands settling on my waist. “She’s going to see what I see.”
“Which is?”
“The greatest thing that ever could’ve happened to me.”
I spin away from the sink to face him. “My dad would’ve loved you.”
This makes him smile. I so rarely bring them up around him, aroundanyone. It’s a wound that still feels fresh. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. He liked rugby, too. All sports, really.”
“Did he watch you swim?”
“All the time. He was a chef. He loved cooking for us, so I was a very mediocre, twelve-year-old swimmer eating like I was two weeks out from an Olympic gold.”
His eyes are glittering with amusement. “Wow.So cooking isn’t genetic, huh?”
“Fuck you, Corbeau, you’ll be grateful for my burned toast one day.”
His hands tighten over my hips, pulling me flush against him. “Oh, I bet. He must’ve been a great man, to raise such a wonderful daughter.”
“Oh, well …” I’m staring at my feet, cheeks flaming for no real reason. “That’s kind.”
His hand links with mine. “Come on.”
I wait outside a hospital room in a different hallway, watching Alex crack the door open. “Maman?”
I can’t hear the quiet reply.
“Ophelia is here, but no pressure.”
Another reply, too soft-spoken to hear.
“Your hair looks good, Mom.”
I hear her ask for a concealer, watch Alex shoot me a knowing look before vanishing inside for a moment. I pick at my nails, nervous.
I’m underwhelming.
I imagine things she might ask me. Where have I traveled? Nowhere. What are my grades like? Just scraping passes. What are my career goals? Haven’t got a single one.
Alex calls me in, and I peek one eye round, like that’ll save me from my terror.
I feel like I already know the woman in the bed. Not just from magazines my mom had when I was growing up, but from the way she shines through Alex.
