outside.” Weston took two platters and I carried one behind him. Stepping onto the deck, we placed the dishes on the table just as Joseph pulled the meat off the grill.
The delicious smelling food tickled my nose as we finished setting the table. The door slid open and Weston's mother came out, closing it behind her. She had a pitcher of iced tea in one hand and what looked like a baby album in the other. She placed the tea on the glass patio table, then rested the album beside it and sank into the chair next to me.
Weston leaned across the table and reached for the album. “Mom, seriously? We haven't even had lunch yet and you're bringing out my baby book?”
I leaped across him and stole the book from his loose grip. “Oh no, you don't. If your mom wants to show me baby pictures, I will sit here all day and look at them.” I flipped open the baby blue cover.
“This is when he was first born. He came two weeks early.” She pointed to a faded picture of him in the hospital. “And this was his Mimi.” She tapped her fingernail on a blanket Weston held in almost every picture. I flipped another page. “He loved the bath, especially around six months when he found his pecker.” My mouth hung open and she winked.
Teegan giggled. “Grandma said pecker.”
“Mom!” Weston stood so fast his chair scraped against the wood. “That’s enough.” He slammed the album shut and pulled it from my hands, then he stalked back inside the house. The family chuckled at his outrage.
“Does he get this flustered with all the girls he brings home?” I asked as I wiped tears of laughter from my eyes.
The table went silent.
Margaret gazed at me with a tiny grin on her face. “Oh, Emilia.” She grabbed my hand. “You’re the only girl he’s ever brought home.” Leaning in, Margaret cradled me; really hugged me. It was an embrace from a mother, one I desperately needed. “The way he looks at you.” Her fingers grasped tighter. “It’s a look I love, sweetie.”
Weston returned to the table. His cheeks were colored a light rose from his embarrassment, and my chest felt as though a ton of bricks had been dropped on my heart. I was the only girl he had ever brought home.
“What did she tell you now?” he asked after his mother pulled away.
I shook my head, still trying to process what Margaret said. “Nothing,” I lied. His mother had told me everything.
Lunch was delicious. The jerk chicken and Caribbean spices were tangy and piquant, and Joseph and Margaret were great at making me comfortable. Joseph was an architect—he had built their home—and Margaret worked in his office. They were humble and sweet, but the constant reminder that I could no longer drive over to my own parents’ for Sunday lunch perched heavy on my heart.
----
O nce the kitchen was cleaned , we said our goodbyes. Margaret kept her arms around me a few seconds longer than necessary, her cheek resting on my hair as she whispered, “You’re welcome in this house anytime.” I nodded my head to let her know I understood. “Take care, my sweet child.” Her voice pressed on my lungs, making it hard to breathe.
I missed my mother.
I shook Joseph’s hand and gave a quick kiss on the cheek to Mama. “My dear, please come back as often as you please,” she whispered in my ear. I pulled back, giving her a kind smile before I darted out of the house, my stride long and quick. I slammed the car door shut and leaned my head back on the seat. Inhaling and exhaling slowly, I tried to gather my thoughts before Weston got in. The driver door opened and I begged—no, I pleaded for my unshed tears to stay put.
“You okay?” he asked, sinking into the leather seat.
“Yeah.” My voice cracked.
He turned the key in the ignition and the engine came to life. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“It just … It feels real.” I turned to face him. “It’s all too real. I don’t remember—”
“Hey …” His hands framed my face.
The delicious smelling food tickled my nose as we finished setting the table. The door slid open and Weston's mother came out, closing it behind her. She had a pitcher of iced tea in one hand and what looked like a baby album in the other. She placed the tea on the glass patio table, then rested the album beside it and sank into the chair next to me.
Weston leaned across the table and reached for the album. “Mom, seriously? We haven't even had lunch yet and you're bringing out my baby book?”
I leaped across him and stole the book from his loose grip. “Oh no, you don't. If your mom wants to show me baby pictures, I will sit here all day and look at them.” I flipped open the baby blue cover.
“This is when he was first born. He came two weeks early.” She pointed to a faded picture of him in the hospital. “And this was his Mimi.” She tapped her fingernail on a blanket Weston held in almost every picture. I flipped another page. “He loved the bath, especially around six months when he found his pecker.” My mouth hung open and she winked.
Teegan giggled. “Grandma said pecker.”
“Mom!” Weston stood so fast his chair scraped against the wood. “That’s enough.” He slammed the album shut and pulled it from my hands, then he stalked back inside the house. The family chuckled at his outrage.
“Does he get this flustered with all the girls he brings home?” I asked as I wiped tears of laughter from my eyes.
The table went silent.
Margaret gazed at me with a tiny grin on her face. “Oh, Emilia.” She grabbed my hand. “You’re the only girl he’s ever brought home.” Leaning in, Margaret cradled me; really hugged me. It was an embrace from a mother, one I desperately needed. “The way he looks at you.” Her fingers grasped tighter. “It’s a look I love, sweetie.”
Weston returned to the table. His cheeks were colored a light rose from his embarrassment, and my chest felt as though a ton of bricks had been dropped on my heart. I was the only girl he had ever brought home.
“What did she tell you now?” he asked after his mother pulled away.
I shook my head, still trying to process what Margaret said. “Nothing,” I lied. His mother had told me everything.
Lunch was delicious. The jerk chicken and Caribbean spices were tangy and piquant, and Joseph and Margaret were great at making me comfortable. Joseph was an architect—he had built their home—and Margaret worked in his office. They were humble and sweet, but the constant reminder that I could no longer drive over to my own parents’ for Sunday lunch perched heavy on my heart.
----
O nce the kitchen was cleaned , we said our goodbyes. Margaret kept her arms around me a few seconds longer than necessary, her cheek resting on my hair as she whispered, “You’re welcome in this house anytime.” I nodded my head to let her know I understood. “Take care, my sweet child.” Her voice pressed on my lungs, making it hard to breathe.
I missed my mother.
I shook Joseph’s hand and gave a quick kiss on the cheek to Mama. “My dear, please come back as often as you please,” she whispered in my ear. I pulled back, giving her a kind smile before I darted out of the house, my stride long and quick. I slammed the car door shut and leaned my head back on the seat. Inhaling and exhaling slowly, I tried to gather my thoughts before Weston got in. The driver door opened and I begged—no, I pleaded for my unshed tears to stay put.
“You okay?” he asked, sinking into the leather seat.
“Yeah.” My voice cracked.
He turned the key in the ignition and the engine came to life. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“It just … It feels real.” I turned to face him. “It’s all too real. I don’t remember—”
“Hey …” His hands framed my face.
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