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"Mom."
"This isn't going further without me meeting him."
"You have met him. When we were eleven."
"I am your mother, and he is your--whatever he is--and I want to talk to him."
"Fine," I said, and hung up. "We, uh, need to go into the house if that's okay, and meet my mom."
"Cool."
Something in his voice reminded me that his mom was dead, and I thought about how everyone always seemed slightly uncomfortable when discussing their fathers in front of me. They always seemed worried I'd be reminded of my fatherlessness, as if I could somehow forget.
--
I never realized how small my house was until I saw Davis seeing it--the linoleum in the kitchen rolling up in the corners, the little settling cracks in the walls, all our furniture older than I was, the mismatched bookshelves.
Davis looked huge and misplaced in our house. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen a guy inside this room. He wasn't quite six feet tall, but somehow his presence made the ceilings seem low. I felt embarrassed of our dusty old books and the walls decorated with family photos instead of art. I knew I shouldn't be ashamed--but I was anyway.
"It's nice to see you, Ms. Holmes," Davis said, offering a handshake. My mom hugged him. We all sat down at our kitchen table, which almost never had more than two people at it--Mom and me. It seemed overfull.
"How are you, Davis?" she asked.
"Things are good. As you may have heard, I am kind of an orphan, but I am well. How are you?"
"Who looks after you these days?" she asked.
"Well, everybody and nobody, I guess," he said. "I mean, we have a house manager, and there's a lawyer guy who does the money stuff."
"You're a j
unior at Aspen Hall, yes?" I closed my eyes and tried to telepathically beg my mother not to attack him.
"Yes."
"Aza is not some girl from the other side of the river."
"Mom," I said.
"And I know you can have anything the moment you want it, and that can make a person think the world belongs to them, that people belong to them. But I hope you understand you are not entitled to--"
"Mom," I said again.
I shot Davis an apologetic look, but he didn't see, because he was looking at my mom. He started to say something, but then had to stop, because his eyes were welling up with tears.
"Davis, are you all right?" my mom asked. He tried to speak again but it devolved into a choked sob.
"Davis, I'm sorry, I didn't realize . . ."
Blushing, he said, "I'm sorry."
Mom started to reach a hand across the table, but then stopped herself. "I just want you to be good to my daughter," she said. "There's only one of her."
"We have to get going," I announced.
Mom and Davis continued their staring contest, but Mom finally said, "Back by eleven," and I grabbed Davis by the forearm and pulled him out the front door, shooting Mom a look as I went.
--
