Page 69 of So This Is Love

“My whole life goal isn’t to get the attention of a man,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“I’m not saying that,” she says with an exasperated sigh. “I’m just saying that you don’t want to close yourself off.”

“I’m not closed off.”

She ignores my statement and continues on with more questions.

“So is there anything interesting going on with you? Are you seeing anyone? Or are you still wrapped up in that job of yours?”

I clench my jaw, trying to unhear the critique in her voice.

“I actually just started seeing someone,” I say, smiling at the image in my head of Bryce in my apartment this morning.

“Is it something serious or just a fling?”

I don’t know how to answer that. Unsure how to explain that despite my best efforts I was falling, no, had fallen, for a man that I promised myself I wouldn’t because the act of falling terrifies me. How does one put into words that it was the fact that I felt so at ease and so comfortable quickly and that within itself was the problem.

I don’t want to get that deep into my feelings for Bryce with my mom so I choose a short and simple answer.

“We’re taking things slow and just seeing where they go.”

My mom hums and eats a few bites of her food before she responds.

“Let’s hope he’s nothing like the last guy. What was his name again?”

I swallow a bite of food. “Devin.”

“Yes, Devin. He sure was handsome, it’s a shame you couldn’t keep him.”

She says this casually as if Devin was a library book that had reached its return date and not a man who lied and cheated on me for months until his lies caught up to him and he couldn’t lie anymore.

I don’t respond, choosing instead to down the rest of my second bellini even though it was still half full. I exhale a deep breath when I set the champagne flute down on the table.

Our waitress comes and asks us if we need anything, clearing away empty plates from our table as she does. My mom orders another mimosa and I just ask for the check. The waitress gives us a smile and tells me that she’ll be right back with it.

The momentary interruption doesn’t stop my mother from continuing her comments about my relationships.

“Well I pray this one goes better and you’re protecting yourself,” she says as she takes a sip of her mimosa. “You don’t want to be left with a baby while the man gets to go off and live his life. I’ve been there and I can tell you that it’s not fun.”

I set my fork down and push my plate away from me, no longer hungry. “Why do you have to do that?”

The check and mimosa are set on our table by our waitress and she swiftly leaves, probably because of the palpable tension in the air.

“Do what?”

“You do realize that the kid that made your lifeso hardis sitting right here, right?”

She rolls her eyes and takes another sip of her drink. “Laila, you have always been so dramatic. Things were hard. I'm not going to sugarcoat it for you.”

When I was growing up, thingswerehard. She isn’t wrong about that. My mom got pregnant her sophomore year of college and wasn’t able to finish her schooling after she gave birth. She worked multiple jobs, and we didn’t have a lot of money, but it was what it was. It didn’t come without her constant reminder that this wasn’t the life that she wanted and that it was all because of my existence. As if I asked for any of it.

“It’s not dramatic to want a mother who actually cares about her daughter,” I say.

“I do care about you. You always had clothes on your back and food in your stomach. If my best wasn’t good enough for you, I don’t know what to tell you. I didn’t realize I was such a bad mom.”

That’s my last straw for this meal.

I grab my wallet, hoping that the cash I have on me is enough to cover our total plus tip because I don’t want to have to sit through the process of waiting to pay with my card.

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