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“What’s his name?” my mother asked, pouring tea into a flowery teacup with a matching saucer.
She didn’t have a kettle or kitchenette in her small room, so she must’ve had it brought in before I’d arrived. Had two cups prepared. She must’ve been excited. I didn’t think she’d had many visitors all the way out here, with my father still working full time. Guilt stabbed my stomach, realizing how little I’d been here to visit my mother.
“Jay,” I answered her, watching as she crossed the small space. I wanted to stand up, help her. Carrying the two cups looked like it was too much work for the small woman.
“Jay,” she repeated, handing me the cup and saucer.
I took it, thankful for something to do with my hands.
My mother’s eyes went to the diamond on my left hand, then they went wide. “Oh, my God,” she whispered. “You’re getting married.”
I nodded, smiling with uncertainty. “Yeah, we are.”
The light in her eyes clouded over as her brows furrowed. “What does your father have to say about this?”
“He’s happy, Mom,” I replied, wishing that I had taken my father up on his offer to come here with me. I felt like a little girl all over again, old fears creeping in, visions of my mother pacing in front of me holding a knife.
She was sick then, I reminded myself. I was too young to understand that. She wasn’t going to hurt me.
“He’s happy?” she repeated, pacing. She was wearing slippers with bunnies all over them. “No, he cannot be happy about this. You’re too young. You haven’t finished high school.” She stopped, pointing at me. “Just wait until he gets home. We’ll be talking about this.”
I stood up, moving toward Mom, even though old fears told me not to, even though they told me to run. This was my mother.
“Mom,” I whispered, grabbing her hand. “We’re not at home, remember? I graduated from high school. I’m almost thirty.”
She stared at me, her eyes vacant and empty, terrifying for a handful of beats. Then they changed, sharpening with knowing and embarrassment. “Of course,” she acknowledged quietly. “Of course you are, sweetheart.” She pulled her hand away from mine, patting it gently. “Now tea. We’ll talk about your man.”
So we did. We drank tea. We talked about my fiancé. Like we were mother and daughter. Like we were not in a mental health facility with locks on the doors and security guards. Like the fiancé I was talking about was not a deadly crime boss. Like my moments, my seconds with my mother, were not dwindling with every day.
And Jay was there when I walked out on steady legs and a bruised heart. And although he was sure he was unable to be gentle or caring, he tended to that bruised heart, to my unsaid fears.
And it was okay.
For a while.
One Month Later
My mind was on a lot of things while I was walking through the house. Our house. Mine and Jay’s. Voldemort was happy in his new digs. More than happy. He barely hissed or scratched me at all. He lay in the various sun traps around the house, his favorite place being Jay’s office. Especially if Jay was in there. The two of them had become fast friends, the two villains, apparently.
My photos were now scattered around the house, on side tables, on the walls, various surfaces. Wren had been sneaky enough to snap a photo of Jay and I at our dinner in New Zealand, just as the sun was setting. He was brushing a hair from my face, and I was laughing into my wine glass. He happened to be wearing a black tee, and I had on a yellow sundress, my hair long and wild. There were shadows behind me and sun rays behind him. It was striking and endearing. I’d had it blown up and framed, mounted in our bedroom, and I’d employed Wren to be our personal stealth photographer, since Jay was not a man for selfies. Plus, the candid shots were so much better. It was my personal mission to fill the house with warmth, memories, love. My mind was on filling the house with something else as I walked down the hallway.
We hadn’t spoken on the topic of kids since New Zealand. Not once. My birth control injections had long run out, which Jay knew since I was now getting periods again. Not that that stopped Jay from doing anything.
Every man I’d ever dated had been nervous, awkward or weird about women on their periods. Somehow, a menstruating woman was something to be scared of, the topic to be avoided and sex obviously out of the question for one week out of the month. Sure, for the first couple of days the last thing in the world I wanted was anyone touching me when I felt swollen, pissed off and crampy. But after the wretched two days, my sex drive was usually back with a vengeance. Which meant I was either frustrated for the rest of the week or my vibrator got a healthy amount of use. As much as men wanted to be seen as progressive feminists with healthy sex drives, they were just scared little boys when it came to menstruation.
