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“Looks amazing,” I say, and lift the slice off the plate to take a bite. “Tastes amazing.”
“This batch turned out pretty well if I do say so myself.” Mom grins again. “Eat. Do you need some water?”
I shake my head. “I’m good. Sit, please.”
She finally plops down on the stool beside mine, but not before handing me a napkin and a fork.
“This is too good for a fork,” I say, mouth still full.
“Then have another slice.”
We eat our bread and drink our tea in companionable silence. I feel immediately better with a full belly and a warm mug clasped between my hands.
Because Mom is awesome, she doesn’t prod or make small talk. Instead, she waits for me to tell her what’s wrong.
Taking a fortifying sip of tea, I do.
I tell her about Nate.
I tell her everything. It’s horrible and painful and embarrassing, but also cathartic. I’ve bottled up all these feelings for so long, and it’s a relief to finally let someone in on my secrets, my pain, my regrets.
“But he didn’t tell you why he left,” she says. I shake my head. Her mouth flattens. “From what you’re telling me, Nate is a good man. A kind man. Him walking out on you seems out of character.”
“I know, right? I don’t get it.”
“He’s clearly trying to protect you. But maybe he doesn’t realize you don’t need protection. You need honesty.”
“Yes.” I scoff. “Could you tell Beau and Samuel and Hank that too?”
She smiles. “I’ll do what I can.”
“Mom.” I let my face crumple. “I miss him. How I was with him.”
She’s rubbing my back again, her brow creased. “Tell me about that.”
I blow out a breath, wondering where I begin. “I had fun. I felt free. I wasn’t a wedding planner or a business owner or, like, Samuel Beauregard’s baby sister or whatever when Nate and I were together. I was just myself, and Nate—he adored me most when I let loose and just, you know, surrendered to the moment.”
“Which made you feel safe,” Mom says with a smile.
“Exactly. I didn’t have to prove anything. I didn’t have to be the perfect girlfriend. I could be a mess, I could just enjoy things, and that . . . I think it allowed my creativity to really flow. Sounds hokey—”
“You were always the creative one in the family.”
I look at her, heart pounding. “But you weren’t.”
The creases between her eyebrows deepen. “What does that mean?”
“Means . . .” I twirl my wrist as I search for the right words. I don’t want to offend the woman who just came to my rescue. “You’re very hardworking, and you’re very practical too. Which I appreciate, so much so that I try to be hardworking and practical too. Being organized is important, especially when you’re raising five kids on your own. I get why you are the way you are, Mom, and I sympathize. I do.”
“I appreciate that.”
“But then I feel silly for being ‘creative’ when there’s so much shit to check off my to-do list. There’s this pressure to always stay on top of things. Because being productive is more important than, say, experimenting with new color schemes or daydreaming about tablescapes, right?”
Mom shakes her head. I can’t tell if she looks stricken or confused. “I don’t think so. But I am listening.”
“I’ve thought about it, and I think creativity requires an element of play. You know when you’re having fun, and your mind just kind of wanders and floats? I love that. But play is not productive—”
“Ah,” Mom says.
“Right. So I don’t play anymore. But with Nate, I played all the time. And yes, that is a euphemism.”
Her lips twitch, and I feel the tiniest bit less like a dick. “So you feel like Nate gave you permission to play. Permission you don’t give yourself.”
“You’re good.”
“I know.”
I meet her eyes. “When was the last time you had fun?”
She blinks, eyes going wide. “Being around my children is fun.”
“What about fun that’s just for you?”
A pause. “Milly, I’m not sure what you mean.”
There it is—the crux of the problem. “Maybe women aren’t allowed to have fun,” I say carefully. “Men can play, but we can’t.”
“Do you think I’m not fun?”
I don’t want to hurt Mom’s feelings. I also don’t want to lie to her.
“You have a great sense of humor,” I try.
She blinks again, and for a horrible second I think she’s going to cry. I curl my arm around her waist and pull her in for a side hug. “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings.”
“It’s okay,” she says. “You’ve just given me a lot to think about is all. I’m sorry if I made you feel silly for being who you are. I admire your dreaminess. Your sensitivity. Your father had a sensitive side, you know.”
I arch a brow. Daddy was diagnosed with a traumatic brain injury when I was young—six or seven. From what I understand, he wasn’t himself for years before that, so I’m not sure I ever knew the healthy man. “Really?”
