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“I can see that,” she says, tossing her purse on the couch. “I’m going to make us some tea, and you’re going to talk to me.”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Do you think the only reason I didn’t want you marrying an actor was because I worked for the press? Silly girl.” She walks toward the kitchen, leaving me temporarily stunned before I follow her.
“Oh, I don’t believe this. Who? Who did you date?”
She pauses. I read her right.
“Oh my God,” I say, covering my mouth. “You have got to be fucking kidding me!”
She pushes up her sleeves before flipping the water on and filling up the kettle. Once she has the bags waiting in the cups, she turns to me and rests her back to the counter.
“Mom!?” I snap impatiently as she stares at me.
“It’s not important who.”
“The hell it’s not, stop stalling.”
“Mel Gibson and you’re his love child.”
My jaw drops. “What?”
“Kidding.”
“You’re ridiculous,” I scold, before we both burst into laughter, mine reluctant.
“His name was Eric Byrne. Irish. Very, very good-looking, a tiger in the sack. He was all the rage for about ten minutes in the eighties, and I was madly in love with him. Well, I thought I was. This was before I met your father.”
“You are such a hypocrite,” I say, pointing the finger. “All this time, you made it seem like actors were the worst people when you had sex in the Kool-Aid!”
“I just didn’t want you falling in love in a way that could torment you. And look at you.” She raises a brow. “It’s not fun.”
“Point taken. Still, Lucas is not Eric Byrne. The way you treated him was unforgivable.”
She hangs her head. “I know. And for the record, that was the worst fight your father and I have ever had. He didn’t speak to me for almost a month.”
“Good. Tell me what happened with the actor.”
“He swept me off my feet. But those sayings about an Irish temper? Well, let’s just say I can testify to them.”
“He hurt you?”
“No, but he might as well have. He was a bastard best left to bed his co-stars and not put silly notions in my head. Maybe we should sit, Mila, you’re so pale.”
“I’m pregnant,” I say, depriving her of what should have been a happy moment. She bursts into tears, and I walk over to her and hug her tightly. “I’m sorry, Mom, I’m sorry. I’m just so miserable right now. I miss Lucas so much. I’m so pissed at him. I should have faked a happy phone call or something.”
“I ruined your wedding,” she sniffs, “it’s only fair.”
“You didn’t ruin it, Mom. Everyone thought you were making a spectacle because you were happy. I still laugh about it and the way Lucas squirmed.”
“I’m sorry for that.”
“It’s inexcusable, but I understand why you were scared. We’d only been dating nine months. I was scared myself.”
When we pulled away, she smiled. “I hope it’s a boy. We could use a boy.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” I pour the water into the teacups to let them steep.
