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“It’s very serious,” I tell her, even as the anxious, paranoid part of me wants to throttle these words to stop me from embarrassing myself. “At least, I think it is. It’s all happened so fast. But the moment I saw him, Mom, I felt like I’ve been waiting my whole life for him. I felt like he was the person I wanted to be with for the rest of my life. I knew I wanted to start a family with him.”
Tears glisten in Mom’s eyes. She paws at her cheeks and clasps her hands even tighter.
“This is wonderful,” she says, voice choked. “Absolutely magical. A family? What a gift.”
I nod, coughing back sobs of my own.
One of my mom’s greatest fears – she’s told me this many, many times – is leaving me behind all on my own. She blames herself for what my dickhead dad did.
And I know she wants, needs grandchildren.
“So,” she says. “Does this mystery man have a name?”
I swallow as nerves shiver through my body.
“Ryland Radley,” I say.
She narrows her eyes at me and the corner of her lips twitch. I recognize the expression from a hundred times during my childhood. It’s the same way she’d look at me when I lied and told her I hadn’t snuck a cookie for the jar.
“I don’t get it,” she says after a long pause.
“It’s not a joke,” I say.
“So you knew him before he came to save us yesterday?”
“No,” I tell her. “I met him yesterday, the same time as you.”
She brings her hand up, as though to run it through her luxurious gray-brown hair, and then lets it drop when she remembers it’s not there anymore.
Sighing, she says, “So how can any of this possibly be true?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Seriously, I have no idea. But the second I saw him yesterday, I just knew it. I felt it somewhere I’ve never felt anything before. Maybe it’s fate. I don’t know. I can’t explain it. But we both feel the same way.”
Mom stares at me for a few long moments. I recognize this expression as well.
It’s like she’s trying to see through me, into my thoughts, trying to work out if I’m playing some kind of prank on her.
“You mean it,” she says.
“Yes.”
“And he feels the same? He’s said he feels the same? This isn’t just projection?”
“We talked loads about it last night,” I say. “We… we’ve kissed, Mom.”
“Have you had sex?”
“Mom.”
“What?” she flares. “This is all very unusual. I think I have a right to know.”
“No, we haven’t had sex,” I snap. “But he’s said he feels the same and I believe him. I didn’t, at first, because—”
“Because of your father,” she says. “Oh, Rosie, not all men are like him. He was exceptionally cruel. He was unique in that way. I don’t get that sense at all from Ryland.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. “You’ve only known him a day.”
She laughs and shoots me a look.
I giggle, realizing my mistake.
“Okay, fair enough,” I say. “I guess that’s pretty ironic coming from me.”
“You know it is,” she giggles, and she sounds like the woman she was when I was a kid.
I remember that laughter, thinking my mom was as young as everybody else’s.
I was at a party when I was five or six, and that’s when I realized. It ached and shivered inside of me, this fact, this finality.
I knew I had to cherish every second as if it was touched by sunlight.
“I know you, Rosie, better than anybody. Isn’t that fair to say?”
I roll my eyes.
She’s got her lecturing voice on, the same one she used throughout all my childhood whenever she wanted to make a point.
“I’m just making a point,” she says, as though she’s reading my mind with that all-seeing smile.
“Yes, Mom,” I say.
“So I can see how happy you are. I’ve never seen you like this before.”
“Really?” I murmur, turning away at the compliment.
There’s something about my mom giving me such wonderful comments that makes me feel shy.
Tell me you’re sexy, Ryland roars in my mind, reminding me of last night. I own you. If I say it, it’s true. And I say you’re fucking sexy.
“Yes,” Mom says. “I don’t know if it makes sense, but he’s protecting us, he’s helping us. I know women these days can be proud…”
“Mom, come on,” I say, shaking my head. “This isn’t about that.”
“Let me finish,” she says, wagging her finger at me and making me laugh. “That’s not supposed to be funny, young lady.”
“Mom, you’re wagging your finger like this is a freaking stage play.”
“Okay, no finger then, smartass,” Mom chuckles, lowering her hand.
And I swear I can see her long luxurious hair cascading down her shoulders, the hair that was still pale brown when I was born. Sometimes, it’s like her illness slips away from her and the old mom glows through.
