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“I’m going to stop you right there,” I say. “There’s only so much of this story I need to know.”
“You look tired,” she says. “Are you feeling back to normal?” She starts walking toward the house, and I fall into step beside her.
How do I tell her that it’s not the food poisoning that has me feeling off? “I’m good.”
“Peggy said you went on a date Friday?” Mom asks.
I groan. “Peggy needs a hobby.”
“She has one, dear. It’s getting into everyone else’s business.” Mom grins as she pulls the door open, and we walk inside through the side door. I can smell the chili cooking on the stove.
“So, what was wrong with this one?” Mom tosses her gardening gloves into a basket by the door and takes off her boots.
“You say that like I make a practice of finding things that are wrong with people.”
“Not all people,” she says. “Just the ones you go on dates with.” She walks over to the stove and stirs the pot of chili.
“Can we eat now?” I ask. “I’m starving.”
“We have to wait for your dad,” she says. “He’s on his way.”
I sit down at the counter across from where she’s standing. “You think I’m too picky?”
Mom turns. “I think you’re holding out for something that maybe doesn’t exist.”
I frown. “You don’t want me to have high standards?”
“Of course, I do,” she says. “It’s just, sometimes I wonder if you’re being a tiny bit unrealistic. With the romance thing.”
I make a face. “The ‘romance thing?’”
“Oh, you know what I’m talking about. It’s like you have this list of things a guy has to do in order to prove he really loves you. Not all great love stories start with grand gestures.”
I feel compelled to remind her that it was her novels on her bookshelf that fed me these ideas in the first place.
But I don’t.
“I mean, look at your father and me.” She smiles.
“No offense, Mom, but Dad is about the least romantic person we know.”
“Oh, that’s where you’re wrong, sweetheart,” she says. “Your father is one of the most romantic people we know.”
“My father? The man who speaks in grunts and football analogies?”
“Sure! I mean, he’s never going to be the one to serenade me in public, but he does make sure my car is filled up with gas every weekend. He handles most of the laundry, and he makes sure the garbage is taken out every single week.”
Practical. Now where have I heard that one before?
“Household chores aren’t romance, Mom.”
“Honey, he is speaking my language. Being thoughtful. Doing things that will show me he loves me. It doesn’t matter what the gesture is, if the intent behind it is to show someone you care, then it can be romantic.” She slices into the warm corn bread. I can smell it from where I’m sitting, and my mouth waters.
“I just think there’s a difference between being thoughtful and being romantic,” I say, and then point. “I’m gonna need a piece of that.”
“Not before dinner.”
I harrumph like a child being told it’s time to leave the water park.
