Page 59 of Her Age Gap Match

He would handle it.

He always did.

“So,” Mom said. “What I care about…you're happy?”

“Very.”

“And how long have you been seeing each other?”

“A week?” I winced at the expression she gave me. “But I've known him two years.”

“And how'd you meet?”

I wasn't thrilled to give her that answer either. “He's one of Sophie's clients.”

She took a second, pursing her lips, unpacking it all. “So…he's older, rich, and one of Sophie's clients. And you aren't at work on a Wednesday.”

I mirrored her look without meaning to.

“Are you disappointed in me?” I asked quietly.

“No,” she shook her head. “No, baby. I could never be disappointed in you for falling in love.” She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing just slightly as she studied me. “Which—are you?”

My eyes darted around. He was still upstairs.

“Yes,” I whispered. “It’s fast, but—we’ve known each other a long time⁠—”

“You know your dad proposed on our first date, right?”

I stopped dead, letting out a surprised laugh. “Are you—are you serious? Dad?”

“He’s a romantic,” she shrugged, chuckling. “We gave it a year, to be fair, but…it’s been decades now and we’re still going strong.”

"So you're saying a week is fine."

"I'm saying love doesn't really have a schedule," she said. "And I'm saying that if your grandmother were still alive she'd tell you the same thing." She picked her crocheting back up. "Now…I’m going to let you go spend more time with that gorgeous man. But please call me when you’re safely back home in Chicago, okay?”

“Okay,” I said. I blew a kiss at the camera, another trademark. “I love you, Mom. Send my love to Dad, too.”

“Will do,” she nodded. “Love you, Poppy.”

She hung up and I sat there for a second, wondering if John was going to come back or if I should find him. I sipped my coffee for a couple minutes…gazed at the stairs and thought.

Finally got up, taking my coffee with me.

I didn’t see him when I first got upstairs, then I heard heavy breaths and looked toward the bathroom door to find him doing pull-ups in the frame—his back to me, shoulders flexing, showing off that single faded tattoo on his bicep. I watched for a second; couldn’t help it, because he was pretty and shining and perfect and I just…stood there. Thinking.

He wasn’t old. He was okay. He was healthy.

We were going to be together for a long, long time.

Something in me settled at that…breathed into it, relaxed.

He was fine.

Eventually he dropped and slowly turned around, totally unaware that I was there. When his eyes found me, he looked a little sheepish, like I’d caught him in a weird habit.

“Sorry,” he said, talking before I could get a word in. “I’m—you’ll get used to it. I do a quick circuit every morning, prison thing.”