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When Mom started quizzing her about babymoons and living arrangements and how many kids she wants, and she suddenly strongly resembled a deer caught in headlights, I intervened. I swept Mom away under the guise of needing help with something in the kitchen, and her turning her inquisition on me was worth the grateful, if slightly guilty, smile Sunday graced me with.
Returning one of the glasses I pretended urgently needed cleaning to the cabinet above the sink, Mom smiles at me too but it’s different. Sneakier. Downright devious, really, with no small amount of gloating. “You like her.”
A nervous laugh escapes me, gaze firmly on the dishwasher I’m unloading. “Of course, I do.”
“Youreallylike her.”
“She’s my girlfriend.” That’s kinda a given, right? Yet Mom’s looking at me like it’s some surprising revelation.
She coos, “You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“Same one Nick had about sixteen years ago.”
The doe-eyed dumbass one, then. “I don’t have that look.”
“It’s a good look, hun. Been waiting a long time to see it on you.”
Guilt coils in my gut. What am I supposed to say to that? Sorry, Mom, but whatever you’re seeing is an illusion because Sunday and I aren’t actually together, so that happy ending you’re concocting in your head is never gonna happen? I knew this was gonna be complicated but fuck. I’m starting to think it would’ve been easier for us to just bite the bullet and actually date.
“Have y’all talked about what’s gonna happen if you go back to work?”
“When,” I correct, “I go back to work, we’ll figure it out.”
“Figure it out.” Mom huffs, kissing her teeth. “That’s a terrible plan.”
I can’t argue with that.
“Is she gonna move to Chicago with you?”
“No.” Not that I’ve asked, but I don’t need to. If she won’t even move in with me, I think it’s safe to assume following me across the country is a hard boundary.
“Are you even going to Chicago?” Mom presses on, raising more questions I don’t know how to answer, that I haven’t thought about in… weeks, actually. Not since my last talk with Ryan before the ultrasound. I’ve had other, more right-here-right-now, things to worry about. “Or is another team drafting you?”
I wisely decide not to mention the Devils’ interest—if anyone hates them, and Sal Rodés more than me, it’s Lynn. “I don’t know.”
“What if you’re not cleared to play by next season?”
Then I’m done. If I’m not cleared in a year, I never will be.
I don’t dwell on why that doesn’t make me feel quite as destitute as it did a couple months ago.
When I take too long to answer, Mom sighs and sets a hand on my shoulder. “I know how hard you’ve worked to get where you are. I don’t want you to just give that up but I do want you to really think about if it’s worth it. Being apart won’t be easy on either of you, especially for such a long time. I don’t want you to regret not being there.”
“You think I want that?”
“No. But I think you’re stubborn and prideful and too old to be either.”
“If I’m old, what are you?”
Immune to baiting, Mom persists, “I’m very happy for you, Cass. And I’m very proud of you.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“But call me old again and I’ll make sure that child is your one and only.”
“Noted.”
