“Why? You’re amazing.”
I shrug. “I don’t know . . . all the other students at the Boston workshop? They’re not like me. They don’t have my baggage.”
“No one’s like you, Gray. Not on the piano. And I mean that in a good way.”
I nod, knotting my aching fingers together.
“Is the New York trip with Maggie still happening?” Luca asks when I don’t say anything else. “You haven’t talked about it much lately.”
“We,” I say, waving my hands between us, “haven’t talked about much of anything lately.”
He scuffs his ratty gray Chuck Taylors against the tabby sidewalk. “Listen, Mom’s making lobster bisque for dinner tonight. Why don’t you come? Kimber’ll be there. Maybe you guys can chat a little more.”
I squint at him, but I can tell he’s trying. He wants me to fit in with her, or her with me, or him with all of us. Something.
“Eva will be there too,” he says when I don’t answer right away. “Maybe you can talk to her, too.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Of course I would talk to Eva.”
“I mean talk to her talk to her.”
He gets my best what the hell look for that one.
“You still haven’t told her everything about you and your mom, have you?”
I flinch. “Are you serious?”
“Are you serious? Yes, Gray. Maggie’s not . . .” He trails off, filling his cheeks with air before letting it out slowly. “I mean, you and Eva . . . you’re kissing or whatever,” he finally says. “I think she needs to know.”
“Do you tell all your sad stories to every girl you make out with?”
“You’re not just making out with her.”
“Exactly, Luca. This isn’t some fling for me.”
I look down, hooking my hands on my elbows, the admission making my heart hurl itself against my ribs. I feel exposed and tender, a butterfly caught in a thunderstorm.
“I know it’s not,” Luca says softly.
I nod, finally daring to glance his way. “Whoopie pie?” I ask.
He grins. “Always whoopie pie.”
“All right. I’ll see you there.”
I’ll do just about anything for Emmy’s whoopie pies, and Luca knows it.
The temperature at dinner is about a hundred degrees of weird. The bisque is thick and creamy, and I could live on Emmy’s homemade brown bread alone for the rest of my life and be totally happy, but the overall vibe? Well, let’s just say I could do without a repeat.
Emmy watches Eva sip at her bisque, flicking her eyes to me, then back to Eva. She smiles and asks about Mom and piano and all that, but I can’t shake the feeling that she’s watching the two of us for signs of . . . what? That we made out? I’m not sure if she even knows Eva’s gay.
“Mom, can we take our whoopie pies downstairs?” Luca asks when Emmy brings a platter brimming with chocolaty-creamy goodness in from the kitchen. “I told Kimber we’d play air hockey.”
“Okay, that sounds fine. Go have fun.” She puts the pies on small white plates and hands them out.
While Luca heads to the kitchen for a glass of milk, something he cannot live without when eating whoopie pies, Eva, Kimber, and I take our desserts and start toward the basement. Halfway down, I stop.
“I’ll be right there,” I tell Eva, handing her my plate. “Just want to ask Emmy something.”
She tilts her head at me but nods. “Okay.”
I tromp back upstairs, not sure what I actually want to say to Emmy. Everything just seems off between us. I’m not used to feeling so disconnected from her or Luca, and I really hate it. Luca knows I’m with Eva, and while I don’t know if Emmy knows about me, I do know she’d be fine with it. When the Supreme Court legalized same-sex marriage, she baked a huge rainbow cake and sold it by the slice at LuMac’s, for god’s sake. Some people on the cape turned up their noses, but a lot of people loved it. So, yeah, I know Emmy will be fine with this, and I just need to hug her. Thank her for dinner. Anything to keep us feeling like us right now.
I’m rounding the corner into the kitchen when I hear Emmy’s voice. It’s low and laced with worry, making me stop in my tracks.
“You’ll talk to Grace?” she says to Luca. “I mean really talk to her?”
“Yeah. I told you I would.”
“I can do it if you need me to.”
“No, I will. But she’s not going to like it.”
The refrigerator opens and something rattles around before it’s closed. “I know, honey. I don’t like it either. I wish I could give Maggie the benefit of the doubt. Everyone deserves fresh starts and second chances, but this thing with Maggie goes way beyond a few too many drinks. Under normal circumstances, I would never ask Grace to talk about her family life if she didn’t want to, but . . . Eva’s been through too much. I can’t take that risk. Not right now.”
“I don’t know why Grace hasn’t told her everything already.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Emmy says, sighing. “Yes, you do.”
“This sucks.”
“You’re her best friend. She knows you love her.”
“It still sucks.”
They fall silent, but I hear another heavy sigh. I can picture Emmy pulling her son into her arms, him towering over her and wrapping his arms around her shoulders, resting his cheek on the top of her head. I blink at the family photos lining the walls in the hallway, all the smiles and hugs and trust and predictability. Even with her lying, cheating husband off to find a new family, Emmy has always been solid. Raising her sons to be decent humans, giving them space to breathe but not so much that they floated away, unnoticed and unguarded. I’ve always been aware of the differences between Maggie and Emmy, between our families. How could I not? But now those differences are bright red on a white background, stark and violent. Cause for alarm. Cause for worry. Cause to protect Eva in a way Emmy wouldn’t protect me. No, couldn’t. Right? Emmy tried. She always tries. Doesn’t she?
I turn and walk down the hall, closing myself into the bathroom as quietly as I can. A sob rises in my chest, blossoming into my throat until it escapes. I press my hand to my mouth to keep it in. Leaning on the tile counter, I meet my mother’s eyes in the mirror. Messy hair. A little haggard from all the late nights with Eva. My heart feels ripped in two. She’s my mother. The Michaelsons are my family, but she’s my mother. And they’re terrified of her. Of what she’ll do or say, some mistake that she can’t take back and whether or not it’ll affect Eva.
But she’s my mother.
I don’t want to tell all of her sad stories. I only want to tell Eva the good ones, the ones that make me a healthily functioning human with a healthily functioning mother.
But that’s not what Mom and I are.