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“I’ll learn it first.”
I have to be open to learning too though.
Taking his phone, I dial my mom.
“Who are you calling?”
I don’t answer Reece, only say, “Hi, Mum,” when my mom picks up.
“Where are you calling me from? The caller ID says—”
“My phone died and I don’t have a charger with me, so I borrowed someone else’s to check in on you. How are you feeling today?”
Reece’s smile is as gentle as his touch when he presses a hand to my knee to stop its incessant movement.
“You didn’t have to do that. I’m fine. I’ve got that bottle of wine you dropped off, a new book to dive into, and the whole day to enjoy both. What else could I possibly want?”
Reece narrows his dark eyes.
Doesn’t he see? She could want a lot more. She could have a lot more.If it weren’t for me.
I abandon his stare for the table.
Would I think that about Charlie?
No.
I change my perspective to an outsider looking in, examining the entire situation. It didn’treallystart with me, did it? I put a hole in my mom’s head, but before that happened, both Cyrus and my dad had already torn a hole in her fate.
“Sounds like a perfect night to me,” I tell her.
“Are you going to be home at a reasonable hour tonight or am I going to have to ground you again for missing curfew?”
“Mum, I don’t live with you anymore because I’m an adult now. I told you yesterday I’m out of town this weekend, remember?”
“Oh.” This pause is quicker than some as she puts everything in the right order. “Where’d you get away to this time?”
“The mountains.”
“Are they lovely?”
I take a grounding inhale through my nose, picking up Reece’s zesty cologne next to me, the comforting cocoon of sweet, delicate crepe batter surrounding us, the earthy call of the firs outside drifting through the front door every time someone opens it.
“Better than fiction.”
“Better than fiction? I didn’t think such a thing existed.”
“I didn’t either,” I admit to her.Until him, I admit to myself. Reece is better than any fictional man.
My mom and I talk for a while longer, then hang up.
“She thinks you’re still a kid?” Reece asks as he waves over a server.
“She occasionally thinks I’m sixteen, yes.”
We put in an order for lunch, then while we wait, I explain to Reece how my mom’s injury affected her memory and what those first couple years following the accident were like. He listens intently and asks questions throughout, never once making me feel judged or pitied. Judgement I deserve. Pity I don’t. But Reece gives me neither, only an open mind as I tell him more about my life than I’ve ever told anyone.
When we’re finished eating, and my voice is hoarse from talking so much, Reece covers the check with more than enough bills, then stands, looks down at me seriously, and says, “Thank you.”
