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My mother isn’t just a perfectionist. She isn’t your classic control freak. There is more to it. I picked up on it the first month home after college graduation. She invited colleagues from the museum to dinner. Hours before their arrival, she walked into my bedroom, went straight to my closet, plucked clothes I only wore for dressy occasions from the hangers and handed them to me with a sour look on her face.
“We have dinner guests this evening,” she’d said. “You will wear this and be downstairs no later than five thirty. You will be well-groomed and behave like a proper young man. Do not speak unless spoken to. Do not say anything untoward or questionable. They are not coming to hear your opinions. They are coming to talk about the museum and what I’m doing.”
That night, I saw my mother in a whole new light. She’d spoken to me like a disobedient child. As if I never used manners. As if I didn’t grasp common courtesy. At first, I played it off as nerves. Gave her the benefit of the doubt. These people must have been important. Probably on the fence about donating funds or art to the museum and this dinner might seal the deal.
But as I dressed that night and combed my hair, one piece of her tirade stuck out. Playing on repeat and unnerving me in a way unlike any previous occasion.
What I’m doing.
Since that night, I paid closer attention to our conversations. The more I listened, really listened, the more I heard it. The constant me, me, me. Anytime Mom called to “catch up,” she led the conversation. Talked about everything driving her crazy, followed by the incompetence of everyone around her. Anyone not doting on her or lifting her up or making her life easier was unworthy in her eyes, and she voiced as much during our one-sided conversations.
As it stands, I ignore most of her calls. Let them go to voice mail. Listen to them when I am mentally prepared. Call her back when I have the energy but cut her off after thirty minutes. My mother isn’t just an energy vampire. She is something entirely different. And after hours of research, I gathered my mother is a narcissist. Or something along those lines, since she hasn’t been professionally diagnosed. Unfortunate for me and everyone who encounters my mother, we will never live up to her standards. And my father—sweet man that he is—is her enabler.
“My mom can be a bit much too,” Shelly states. “Before my brother Micah started dating his now wife a little more than a year ago, Mom wanted to start having these regular family dinners.” She sips her wine. “At first, we both thought it was no big deal. Just our parents missing us.”
“Why do I sense a but coming on?”
Shelly laughs without humor. “They did miss us. But Mom also wanted to pester us about our love lives, or lack thereof.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah.” Her lips kick up in a meh half smile. “Nothing like sitting down for dinner and your mother asking if you’ve been dating or plan to give her grandchildren before she dies.” Shelly rolls her eyes then twists in her seat. “What if I don’t want kids?”
“Then that’s your choice.”
She spears another ravioli and eats the edges off before stuffing the rest in her mouth. “Have you ever thought about it? Having kids, I mean.”
If any other person would have thrown this question at me, I’d probably fly off the handle. But with Shelly, I know this is her curiosity. Us still getting to know each other.
For a split second, I remember the texts I sent when her friend had a baby. What a damn fool I was.
“Honestly, I haven’t given it much thought. Like I said that day when you texted from the hospital, I’d have to be in a serious relationship before the idea ever crossed my mind. And since I avoided relationships—until you—there was no sense in thinking such things.”
Shelly nods. “I get that. The guys I dated before, none lasted past date two.” The look on her face says there is more, but she doesn’t add anything else. She shrugs and pokes at her dinner.
“Why does it feel like you want to say more?” Her cheeks stain pink, a color I haven’t seen on her in weeks. There is more. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
Her lips tip up at the corners. “I appreciate you saying that.” She takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. “But I’m going to say it anyway.”
She grabs her wineglass and downs the remaining half glass.Whoa.“Shelly, you don’t—”
“I’m a virgin,” she blurts then smothers herself with a throw pillow.
Wait, what?
No way I heard her right.
By the way she is actively trying to cut off her oxygen, I’d say I heard her perfectly fine.
How is that even possible? I mentally roll my eyes. Okay, Iknowhow it’s possible. But how in the hell does someone as stunning and magnificent as Shelly reach her early thirties and not lose her virginity? Not that I have loads of experience, considering Kelsey is the only sexual partner I’ve had.
I reach for the pillow and pull it away from her face. She resists me at first but finally lets me take it.
“Shelly…” I encase her hands in mine. “You have nothing to be ashamed of or embarrassed about.” She tucks her lips between her teeth and rocks her jaw side to side. “If anything, the trait makes you more attractive. Not because of some male need to claim you. It says more about your character. Defines you as particular, selective. That you associate the act with love and not physicality. That you don’t just hand your heart or body over to anyone who shows interest.”
She releases her lips and looks up. “No one ever felt right. Not before.”
“Not before.”I will not overanalyze Shelly’s words. Will not read into them and conjure up my own fantasies. But I also won’t leave here tonight until I ask what she means.
