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“Oh, dear,” she says, making a tsking sound. “You should have called me.”
Why, so you could tell me which of your latest bronzers would be the most flattering on sallow skin, and remind me of the game-changing powers of your under-eye concealer?
It’s an unfair thought, though. I love that my mom’s got her own thing going on. I just sometimes wish she knew when to turn off the CEO and when to turn on the mom.
“I’m better now,” I say, pushing aside the soup. It’s all I’ve had for two days and I’m sick of it.
“Good! You want to meet me for dinner?”
I wrinkle my nose. Two dinner invitations from her in as many weeks. It’s not unwelcome, just…odd.
“I think I need one more day of sweatpants and reruns,” I say, “But tomorrow sounds great. What kind of food are you and Dad thinking?”
“Oh. I was thinking dinner, just us girls.”
Uh-oh.
Second time in a row, no Dad. I ignore the warning bells.
“Why, what’s Dad up to?”
“Oh, I’m sure he’d love the time to himself to watch the game or whatever.”
Uh-huh. Or whatever is right. I have to bite my tongue to keep from asking which game. I guarantee she has no idea how bummed Dad is that the Yankees got knocked out of the playoffs last week or that he’s vowed to boycott all sports until spring training.
/> “Are you guys okay?” I ask. “You’ve seemed sort of distant lately.”
There’s a delay in her response, and when it does come, it’s vaguely impatient. “We’re fine, Georgie. If you don’t want to have dinner with your mother, you can just say so.”
Ah, the old guilt trip deflection. Classic.
“I’d love to have dinner, Mom. Let me just see how I’m feeling tomorrow after a good night’s sleep, ’kay?”
“All right,” she says, her voice still a bit stiff. “I hope you start to feel better.”
“Thanks.”
When we hang up, I grab a bottle of water out of the fridge and sink onto the bar stool, resting my head in my hands.
I don’t have a headache anymore, but I still feel like I’m trying to operate through a fog. I just don’t know if the fog’s a lingering effect of the sickness or the fact that my personal life’s a super-fat mess.
On top of it all, I feel weak. Hungry for real food, not soup. But I know without looking that the fridge is mostly empty. I heave a sigh and am just reaching for my phone to order something for delivery when I hear a quiet knock at the door.
I start to stand, but before I can move, it opens, and I give a little screech of terror until I see the familiar form of a suit-wearing Andrew.
“Gawd,” I say, slumping back down and putting a hand over my chest. “You scared me. How do you still have a key?”
He stands in the doorway, looking unsure. “I thought you’d still be asleep, I didn’t want you to have to get out of bed to answer the knock. I’ll return it immediately.”
“Return it later,” I say, gesturing him in. “I smell cheese.”
“Thought you might be wanting some real food,” he says, coming into the kitchen and letting my front door shut behind him. “Brought some lasagna for later.”
I’m already diving for the paper bag.
“Or for now,” he amends, watching as I rip it open.
I pull out the foil container and tear off the lid, but I pause when I see him locate both my napkins and silverware in the right drawer on the first try.
