“That sounds great, Mom. I’ll take a half day on Saturday and come out to see you.”
“Oh, how wonderful.” I can practically see her beaming. “You have to tell me everything you’ve been up to. I’m so proud of my smart girl.”
As soon as I arrange to meet her at a Pasadena diner and hang up, I remember that I told Hayden we’d hang out next weekend. “Shit,” I grumble aloud. I grab my phone again and tap out a quick text.
Emery: Can we do Sunday instead of Saturday? My mom’s coming and she’s only in town for a couple days.
Two minutes later, my phone chimes with a reply.
Hayden: That’s cool. Let me know if you need any ideas for what to do while she’s in town.
Emery: Hmm. Not sure. She’ll be in Pasadena.
Hayden: I can give you a ride. I should visit Pasadena anyway and meet the building manager about rent . . . Caltech grad students are poor as fuck.
I pause to consider his offer, my thumb hovering over the keypad. On the one hand, I don’t want anything to interrupt my time with Mom. It would suck if we had to cut our lunch short because Hayden needed to get back to Los Angeles. On the other, I could avoid dealing with the utter hell that is Southern California traffic. Let Hayden raise his blood pressure for me.
As I’m thinking, I get another text.
Hayden: It’d be fun to meet your mom, she must be amazing lady if she made you. ;) You saw my awkward family today, I should get to see yours.
That’s an unexpectedly good point. It still feels a little weird for us to be meeting each other’s relatives all of a sudden, but if I introduce Mom and Hayden, maybe I could ask her for a second opinion. Or maybe it’s a fourth opinion by this point, after all the people who’ve warned me about him.
Before I can change my mind, I send a reply.
Emery: I guess that’s only fair. Pick me up at work on Saturday at 11 AM?
I wait for his confirmation—a simple OK—before I turn off my phone and finally sleep.
? ? ?
When we walk into the diner on Saturday, Mom is already sitting in a booth with a huge hamburger in front of her. “Over here,” she calls with a wave. “I’m starved, so I went ahead and ordered.”
Hayden looks slightly startled. He probably expected this little old lady with thick bifocals and thinning gray hair—but the plaid flannel shirt and the hat proudly emblazoned with Mother Trucker in tall red letters, not so much. To his credit, he only pauses for a moment before replying, “We don’t mind. I’m only staying for a cup of coffee anyway.”
We sit down facing her. Hayden orders his coffee and I get blueberry pancakes. Breakfast is just about the only meat-free thing on the menu here.
After the waitress leaves, I reach out to hold Mom’s hands. My heart twists a little; her wrists and knuckles seem even stiffer than when I left home. “You’ve got to stop running these long hauls, Mom. The doctor said that manual transmission is wrecking your joints. And what if you get a blood clot in your legs from sitting eleven hours a day?”
“Nonsense,” she huffs. “Best job I ever had. Fifty-five grand a year, I decide my own schedule, and I get to see the country. You think waiting tables again would be easier on my knees? And my hands and shoulders are too shot to go back to factory jobs.”
“But you don’t need to work so hard anymore. You can stick to local deliveries. I’m done with school, and I’m making my own loan payments and living off my own savings. In a few years, I’ll start earning enough that you can retire.”
“I’m not here to talk about me, sweet pea. Or about money. I want to hear what’s new with you.” She cocks her head with a sly smile. “And who’s your friend?”
“I’m Hayden,” he says, standing up awkwardly in the booth and extending his hand. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Winters.”
Mom shakes his hand and he blinks; another thing he clearly didn’t expect is her patented death grip. “Call me Val. You work at Emery’s firm?”
For the next twenty minutes, Mom peppers Hayden with questions about how we met, what he does for a living, where he went to school. He answers everything with as much grace as an interrogated prisoner can muster.
I give up even trying to steer the conversation. Mom has always thrown herself full force into everything—she’s known for her fierce affection, fierce anger, fierce joy—and it’s impossible to stop her once she’s made a decision.
Eventually Hayden finishes his coffee, leaves a fifty-dollar bill on the table to cover all three of our checks, and gets the hell out of there before I can protest his generosity. As soon as the door clangs shut behind him, Mom fixes me with a keen stare over her wire frames. “Don’t fall in love with that boy.”
I splutter out my mouthful of iced tea. “W-what?”