“Hey,” my mother crowed, surprising me so I fell off the bench with a clatter. “None of that now. I know you get this 'urge to run-away' thing from me, but it's not cute. If you don't like a boy, you need to tell him.” I nodded dully, chastised. Then I paused to consider. This was one of our exceedingly rare mother/daughter moments, in which Anya was playing the mother. I smiled. I liked it.
Her face was healing nicely. It had been a relief to discover last week that the bruises on her skin were light—the Pastor's wounds had been more psychological than anything else. Yet Mom had been drifting around Carson's like a ghost for days now, appearing in doorways when you didn't expect her. She couldn't lie down. She couldn't watch TV. She was eager and antsy for some peace, some structure—for the walls of her own home.
“Come here, baby,” she called to me. I went, allowing myself be folded up in her cool, fragile touch. I had to resist the urge to nestle my fingers into her back, like she was a tree I could climb. My mom. Flawed, but lovely. Weird, but wise—in her way.
“We haven't gotten a chance to talk about boys in ages,” she said, leading us back towards Carson's communal kitchen. The infamous roommate, Gonzo, was propped against the kitchen island with a ukulele strapped across his chest. He didn't acknowledge us as mom drifted towards the kettle on the stove.
Luckily her back was turned, so she couldn't see me blush something fierce. Though the word 'boy' didn't seem suitable for Landon, he still managed to appear in my memory. This was happening all the time lately. In my worst moments, during the most tedious parts of my day, there he'd be—the memory of his morning face fluttering awake against the pillows, or the musculature of his chest, rising and falling as he slept. We'd been talking for hours and fucking for hours, and well...time was a blur. There were apparently Mondays and afternoons and events and classes to attend, but lately, for me, the world was divided into time spent with Landon and waiting to spend time with Landon.
“I know that face,” Anya smirked, over the rim of a chipped teacup. I tried to duck my head, but I knew it was too late—the typical big red blush was probably splattered all over my cheeks.
“Mo-om!” I trilled, enjoying the word. Anya sipped her tea and raised her eyebrows.
“Well! Tell your poor old nutty ma all about it!”
I wanted to, was the funny thing. I looked into her hopeful eyes and tried to imagine how the truth would sound. You know him, actually. He's tall, dark and handsome, even if his family is a little...freaky. I found the beginnings of the words on my tongue, but when I opened my mouth they seemed to evaporate. I couldn't do it. I couldn't possibly tell Anya that the man I was falling in love with was the son of the person who had hurt her the most.
“He's just a boy,” I said instead, brushing past her to the cabinet with its assorted mismatched crockery. “I dunno. It probably won't go anywhere. He's a senior, and he's really...well, he's nice.”
“Nice is good!”
“He's an athlete. Kind of a jock type, actually.”
“That doesn't sound like you,” mom said. She set her cup down on the counter, and the sound of clinking seemed to set off the listless ukulele man. He drifted away into the living room.
“It's not so bad.”
“Well, here's my spiel. You want to be with someone you know will be kind to you.”
“I know that, mom.”
“No, honey.” She took a deliberate step towards me. “I'm not talking about someone who can talk a good game and be sweet. I'm not talking about constant fireworks, either. Someone who is kind and good and knows how to treat women. You want to look at his history, too. Don't wanna be surprised a month in with someone's demons.” These words—the first direct mention my mother had made of the incident with the Pastor—hung between us in space like a bad smell. In one swoop, Anya's caution neatly destroyed my image of Landon, splayed sweetly against sweaty pillows. There were tears hovering on my mother's eyelids. And I knew, with a pang, that she was right.
“Oh, sweetheart, I'm sorry. Don't mind me. It's just—you never know about people. Sometimes they seem great, and...” She clapped her hands together, violently. “I couldn't take it if you fell for a bad man. I would feel like I'd failed at the only job I've managed to hold on to.”
Outside, the crickets had begun their evening concert. Carson would be home soon from the guitar store, where she'd taken up a few extra shifts to help pay for Mom's expenses as she lobbied for paid medical leave. My phone blurted out a text in my pocket. I knew who it was from before I checked it. Hey, baby, he'd written. Meet me at our place later? Wanna talk. XO—L.
For the first time in days, the thought of Landon's boyish grin suddenly made my heart sink. What could we do? What could we be? And at what cost, all of this?
Derby's seemed even less crowded than I remembered (what was it? Two weeks ago? Time was doing its funky thing again....)—but a dark, lonesome bar suited me just fine. It was uncharacteristically chilly in the parking lot, as I shifted foot to foot, waiting for lover boy.
I hadn't decided what I would say when Landon finally showed his shaggy head, but I knew what wasn't going to fly: sad karaoke. Make-outs. Sweet nothings. Oh, no, no. We needed to have a serious, conscious conversation about what our little thing was going to look like. Even if I'd been fighting off images of his perfect mouth all day long, we needed to talk shop. Because the thing was, I didn't know if I could go on lying to my mom about our relationship. But I also didn't know if Landon would be willing to wait for however much time it would take until we became an appropriate, palatable union in the eyes of everyone we loved.
To avoid temptation, I'd decided to dress the part of the serious student inquisitor. I wore black jeans and a long-sleeved paisley button-up, borrowed from one of Carson's mystery house-guests. My hair was tamed in a floral scarf. I tugged nervously at the ends of my shirt cuffs, hoping I didn't look so Mom-like he wouldn't recognize me. I hadn't smoked in weeks (sex was apparently a pretty good replacement for an oral fixation), but the urge to light up was strong. He made me nervous.
And at last, there he was—scooting around the bend in the Saab where it all began. I fought the urge to cry out a desperate hello when I saw him emerge from the driver's side. This turned out to be a good thing, because as Landon approached I saw that his face was as serious as I hoped mine was. I watched him slam the door. I watched him begin his athlete's lope toward me, muscles propelling him forward through space with the grace of a cheetah. I rehearsed my first words, in my head: Landon. We need to have a serious talk about this. I'm not sure we're being properly careful, considering how many people we could hurt.
When he caught my face under the buzzing fluorescent parking lot light, his eyes widened, and a smile spread across his face. I couldn't help it—I started grinning like an idiot, too. He flicked a stray strand of brown hair out of his face, where it had fallen over an eyebrow—his hair was getting longer. His muscles bulged out of a t-shirt, a bright blue number, painted with the Superman logo. Hell, if the shirt fits...
“Hey you,” he said, biting his lip. He took another step towards me, and I felt my plan start to collapse. I tilted my hips against his, so when we embraced I felt the whole of his lower body through his jeans. It was still shocking to me, how ripped he was.