Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 69858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
“Alright,” I say, more curious than anything else.
She gets out her phone. “I’m going to text you a movie list. I want you to watch all of them. You don’t have to like them, just watch them.”
My phone buzzes, and I pick it up to see the message she’s just sent. I’m not surprised to see that it’s a list of romantic comedies and fairy tales, but neither am I excited.
“Really?” I say.
She merely smiles. “Think of it as food for thought. You can even rage against them if you want, I’ve done plenty of that. But watch them. Oh, and one extra little part of the assignment.”
“What?” I’m fully wary now.
Stephanie touches my arm lightly. “Invite your mom over. Have her watch them with you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Sunday, November 27
“Well?” I ask, turning off the TV and rolling my head on the couch cushion to look at my mom, sprawled on the other side. “What did you think?”
A dreamy smile crosses her face. “I quite liked that last one. A British dork and a movie star. Who would have thought?”
“No one,” I say. “Because it’s make-believe. Show me Hugh Grant’s and Julia Roberts’ characters five years after the movie ends. I’m betting they’re divorced.”
The words feel automatically preprogrammed in me, but honestly? I don’t feel the words like I used to.
Because I too liked the movie. I’ve liked all of the movies.
Stephanie knew what she was doing.
Mom gives me a fond smile, looking a little thoughtful. “Have you spoken to Thomas?”
I give her a glare, because I’ve told her at least ten times tonight that he is not open for discussion. And even if he were, the discussion has been short.
Have you spoken to Thomas?
Nope.
See? End of conversation.
“Okay, okay,” she relents. “How’s the new job going?”
I narrow my eyes, skeptical of the change in subject, but she seems interested, for once. “Really great, actually. It’s a challenge, and I feel over my head at times, but I’m surprised by how much I like having something to sink my teeth into, and something where I can set up long-term vision rather than just checking off the next immediate task.”
“I’m really glad. And really proud.”
I take a deep breath and look at her through one squinted eye, braced. “Is this the part where you ask me for money to fund your physical therapy schooling?”
She winces and sits upright, reaching for her water glass. “I deserve that. I do. But no, I’m done with that. I’ve decided to take a cue from my brilliant daughter and try to be a grown-up. I’ve buckled down at the salon a bit more. Encouraged my clients to book out a month in advance rather than telling them I could maybe squeeze them in if I didn’t get a better invitation to Atlantic City.”
“Wow.” Wow. “That’s great. Right?”
“It is,” she says slowly. “It’s not my dream job or anything, but I think I could use a little practice at discipline.”
“Who are you? What have you done with my mother?”
Her smile is distracted, almost mysterious. She nods towards the TV. “Let’s play the next one on Steph’s list.”
“The last one? Let’s do it.”
She looks disappointed. “That’s all we have? But we’ve been having so much fun these past few weekends.”
Per Stephanie’s suggestion, I invited my mom for the movie viewing session. Every Sunday night we’ve watched two or three of the movies until we’ve made it all the way through.
“Well, that’s too bad,” Mom says, standing and folding the blanket. Even that is a first.
“Mom, is everything okay?” I ask, a little nervously. “You didn’t get a call from the doctor, right? No diagnosis you want to tell me about . . .”
She laughs. “Dear God, Mac, what have I done to you that you think me being in love resembles me dying.”
My eyes widen. “In love?”
“His name is Richard, and he’s very sweet.”
I don’t respond. I don’t think I’ve ever heard my mom even use the L word in relation to a man before. Or describe a man as sweet.
“Of course, the old fart is ridiculously old-fashioned,” Mom says, rolling her eyes. “We’ve been on five dates now, and he still won’t let me get in his pants.”
The surprises just keep coming. “You haven’t slept together?”
“Not yet. We’re just sort of enjoying each other. Not like some of these movies,” she says, pointing at the screen and smiling a little fondly.
“You’re being courted by a guy named Richard. Who you’re not sleeping with. All because my friend made us watch The Little Mermaid?” I ask skeptically.
“I think your friend is very wise.” She pats my leg.
“You do?” I don’t think I’ve ever been this thrown off in a conversation with my mom. “What happened to letting things go before they turned sour, and living in the moment, and oh, I don’t know, everything else you’ve been preaching at me for decades?”