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While at the stove, I let my mind wander back to the last interaction Blaire and I had earlier today. I thought about how I had seen the warring in her eyes after my impulsive acknowledgment to the new things we had tried together over the past week. If you would have asked me nine months ago who would be having a harder time keeping their attraction tamped down, well, first I would have laughed at the idea that Blaire and I could actually share a space without fighting, but I would have definitely bet on Blaire being the one to struggle, not me. I had worked fastidiously to keep my emotions locked down since the day my dad walked out, and the fact that I let the reins loosen even slightly around Blaire should have been even more of a reason to stay away.
But what I had learned about Blaire was that her discipline in keeping our relationship professional wasn’t coming completely from a place of insane-level self-control, but more from a place where she cared so much about others. It wasn’t lost on me that the reasoning that came out of her mouth when she word-vomited about why we couldn’t repeat the actions of the night of the snowstorm wasn’t focused on her own reputation or self-preservation. No, it was for me and the job I had lined up. The job that would take me away from her, from our towns, and the life that I had always known.
Speaking of the life I had always known, I shook myself and focused on the near-boiling-over pot of pasta on the stove and tried to bring myself back to the here and now—this here and now being when I had to tell my mom I was leaving her and moving away for a job.
“I can hear the pasta bubbling in there, son, and the sauce smells just about perfect. Should I set the table and grab us some drinks?”
Mom stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, placemats in hand, ready to set the table no matter what I said, apparently.
“Sure, Mom, that would be great. I brought a bottle of red over to have with dinner. It’s open and breathing over there on the counter.”
Mom walked over to the small table in the corner of the kitchen that we used for meals, laying out her favorite gingham placemats and matching napkins and then walked over to the cupboard to grab our bowls and set them on the counter next to where I was cooking at the stove. She wandered a few steps to her left, picked up the bottle of wine and examined the label.
“This looks like a pretty good bottle for Winterberry Glen. I’m sure when you move to the city, you’ll have access to even better wine than you can get around here.”
Glad I hadn’t been holding either pot of bubbling hot liquids at that moment in time, I stared at my mom, dumbfounded.
“Well, I figured that’s what you were planning to tell me about tonight after you put in all this effort making your sauce for me. You seemed nervous. You were stirring that pot of pasta an awful lot. I thought I might put you out of your misery.”
“Wait, you knew about the move? How?!”
My mom looked back at me, a look that said, “I love my son, but he can be a real idiot.”
“You and Austin seem to think just because you’re in a different room there’s a soundproof force field or something up. My hearing isn’t that bad, you know. And that boy’s voice just has a way of carrying.”
With that, she poured us each a healthy portion of wine into glasses she seemed to have procured out of thin air and walked herself to the table to sit down.
I went through the motions of straining the pasta and serving our preferred portions into our favorite large bowls, spooning sauce onto the top of each pile of pasta. I brought the bowls over to the table and sat down.
“I want to know all about the move and this new job I’m assuming you’re moving for, but first, don’t forget the garlic bread.”
Apparently, Mom had it all together tonight, and I couldn’t be trusted with anything. I jumped up, grabbing the garlic bread out of the oven—somehow remembering to grab an oven mitt first. I threw the toasted bread into the basket she kept on top of the fridge for such occasions.
“Why didn’t you tell me you knew?”
Mom arched her eyebrow at me. I always forget that’s where I had picked up that move.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the move earlier?”
Point to the matriarch.
“It wasn’t 100 percent a sure thing until my trip up to the capital last week. The whole festival was basically a trial run for the position they have in mind for me, and they’re pleased with how things have gone so far, so we had a meeting to sort out some of the final perks and package details when we were there. I didn’t think it was worth mentioning until I knew it was a sure thing. I didn’t want to upset you unnecessarily.”
Mom continued to eat her pasta while she thought this over, and I realized I’ve hardly touched mine. While I took a bite, she responded, “We’ll come back to that in a minute. Now, tell me why you want to take this job. The whole story, please.”
I guess eating my pasta was going to have to wait until the questioning was over. Why didn’t I know how to make a simpler-to-eat-while-interrogated food?!
“Well, there are a few reasons, I guess. The first is that it’s a promotion. You can’t go much higher than CFO in a town this size, and it would be nice to not have peaked in my career at thirty. And, also, honestly, a big part of it is the memories of this town. There’s the bad blood between Winterberry Glen and Holly Ridge, the feelings associated with being here after Dad left and...”
“And how it felt to live here while he was still here, too?”
“I mean, yeah, a little. From the outside, everyone thinks these small towns are the perfect place to live, and everyone that lives here is happy to do so. I’ve never really had a reason to feel that way. I love living close to you and Austin, but that’s really all I have here. I guess I want a chance to find more?”
At this, I found myself needing a big swig from that wineglass. Another mistake because that’s when Mom dropped the big Greene bomb.
“And what about that festival planner? You don’t have her to keep you here?”
I spluttered on my swig of wine. Damn Austin and his big mouth.
