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“That’s a stupid rule.”
“Sorry. It’s still the rule.”
Practically stomping his foot, he huffs. “You act like we’re a couple of children and we’re going to burn the house down or something.”
In a metaphoric sense, that’s precisely what I’m worried about. “Fire is not my concern, I assure you.”
“Then whatareyou worried about, Mom?”
I stare at the blatant challenge. He knows.
“Come on, Mom. Say it.”
Why is he doing this? And why such anger, beyond any reasonable amount?
“Mom?” His tone goads.
I dart a glance at Reagan, trying to look the other way. John? He’s behind me somewhere, spectating, I suppose.
Why is Jacob doing thishere? I’m not into making scenes. Oh, this is one of those conversations I’d gladly defer to a father.
“Say it, Mom.” Genuine anger burns in his eyes.
I raise my chin. I am the mother, after all. “We’ll talk later.”
“I want to talk now. I think it’s high time.” He spins the deadbolt on the back door and stalks outside.
I should let him cool off.
Instead, I follow. “You have a lot of trouble on your plate right now, you know?”
“Reagan is not trouble.”
“She could be.”
He bows up. “She isnottrouble. She’s my girlfriend, and I love her.”
“You don’t love her, Jacob. You’re too young—”
“I am not too young!” His voice booms. My legs bump the patio chair behind me.
What have I done to deserve this? My precious son is…gone. Suddenly, when we talk, he treats me like the enemy. It’s happened again and again—ever since Reagan entered the picture, and especially these last few weeks. I don’t understand.
“I love Reagan, and I’m marrying her, Mom.”
I step closer. “No, you are not. Not if I have any say in it.”
“I’ll be eighteen soon. See if you can stop me.” He boldly grinds the words out.
“Jacob, you need to finish school.”
“I’ll be done with school in May.”
“I’m talking about college. Getting married would change your plans. Would change everything.”
“I don’t know what you know about marriage.”
The words, coupled with the tone, are a slap.
