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“No problem.”
We just arrived at the airport to pick up his mom. He asked me yesterday in an effort to give me enough notice to switch things around at work, saying he didn’t want to drive. Someone’s car alarm goes off, the horn blaring repeatedly, and Brayden winces. The alarm turns off as he takes my hand. He breathes a sigh of relief.
It’s been tough watching him deal with this. He doesn’t talk about it any more than he has to. But to see something obviously knock him down like this has? To see him struggle? It’s hard. My heart is constantly torn with wanting to hug him and not wanting him to see that I feel bad for him. Not sure he’d want to see that. He hasn’t minded the hugs I’ve given him so far, though.
We’re a little early, but we find a place near baggage claim to wait for her. Brayden fiddles with my sunglasses, which he’s wearing because he doesn’t own a pair and the first five minutes outside, he complained about the sun being too bright.
“How ridiculous do I look?” He glances down at me. My heart swells with his faint smile.
“You don’t. These aren’t chick sunglasses.” I roll my eyes, hoping I can get a chuckle out of him, and grin when I do.
“I know that.” He pinches my ass where his hand always seems to find its resting place. My sunglasses are a pair of aviators. He’d probably wear them, even if they were girly. “I mean because we’re inside. I still don’t understand why people wear them inside or at night. Maybe they’re all suffering from concussions too?”
I laugh, self-conscious enough to make sure it’s a soft one, and say, “Probably not.”
Brayden pulls me closer and rests his chin on top of my head. “Still nervous?”
“Yes.”
“Want to change your mind?”
“Can I?” It’s tempting.
“If you want, but it might be too late.” His hands are suddenly on my hips to turn me. “Hey, Mom. This is Deanna. Darlin’, this is my mom, Maryann.”
Just as my hand moves for a handshake, she steps forward to hug me. “It’s so nice to meet you, Deanna. I wish I could say more, but my son hasn’t told me much about you yet.” She glares at Brayden with that last bit and moves to hug him. “How are you doing?”
“Fine. What’s your bag look like?”
“It’s black.” Her response is so blunt and simple that I giggle, laughing harder when she winks at me and Brayden is surely glaring at us both.
“So helpful.”
“There are Carolina Rebels ribbons tied to the handles. Just for you. Are you sure you want to pick it up?”
“I can lift your suitcase, Mom,” he mutters as he walks to the carousel. The bags begin to appear and make their rounds.
“Is he really doing okay?” she asks me. “I’ll get to you in a minute, by the way, but he’s my son, so he’s always my first concern.”
“He’s been resting mostly. I’ve stayed at the house, so I try not to let him do much of anything. He’s slightly irritable and has sensit
ivities to lights and sounds. Plus, there’s the headaches. That’s it. If there’s more, I don’t know about it. I gathered that much from observation.”
She frowns and I know instantly that Brayden’s frown came from his momma. Looks exactly the same. “Thanks for taking care of him.”
“Of course.”
“So, how old are you?”
She manages to learn my age, occupation, and that I met Brayden in a bar before he walks over with her bag. I’m grateful, too. I don’t mind that she wants to get to know me, but it feels a little too interrogation-like for me. Plus, I’m too busy answering that I forget to worry about impressing her. What does she think about the fact that we met in the bar? Will she make assumptions because I was hanging in a bar? Surely not, since those same assumptions would have to apply to Brayden, right? Unless because he’s her son there’s a double standard?
Shit, I’ve never met a parent before! Well, I’ve met parents of friends before, but never fuck buddies or boyfriends when I had them. At this point, I don’t know what the hell we are.
On the ride back, I panic over this just a bit. Maryann catches Brayden up on things back home in Michigan and her meal plan for Thanksgiving dinner. Maryann oohs over Otis, who doesn’t jump on her with his finally-trained self, while Brayden takes her bag to the guest room. I stop by Brayden’s room to grab my bag, which I packed this morning.
“What are you doing?” Brayden leans against the doorframe, looking confused.
“Going to work.”
