Page 91 of My Only

“Ayla,” my mother said the moment she opened the door. “Beloved.”

Her arms were around me before I could even say a word.

It was like she could sense that I almost didn’t show up.

“Hey, Mama,” I said, embracing her back.

The scent of dinner wafted through the air, meeting me at the door and damn near pulling me inside. One deep inhale, and I already knew—lasagna. My mother’s lasagna. My stomach growled in response.

I’d known about this dinner for weeks, my mother reminding me every chance she got.

“Remember, I’m hosting a very special dinner at my house next Friday.”

“Don’t forget, beloved. Friday.”

Though canceling had crossed my mind more times than I cared to admit, I knew I couldn’t. Not this dinner.

“Is this her?”

The deep unfamiliar voice reached me before the man’s face did.

I had to remind myself to breathe.

My mother turned toward him, and my eyes followed.

He was tall, handsome, and in great shape for a man in his early sixties. He carried himself with ease, with confidence.

“Yes, it is,” my mother confirmed, pressing a hand to my cheek. Then, she reached behind her, fingers sliding into his. I watched the whole thing happen, my heart twisting.

“Ayla,” she continued, “this is Warren. Warren Jameson.”

“You can just call me Warren,” he said quickly. “Warren is just fine.”

I swallowed hard but forced a smile. “Nice to meet you, Warren.”

He stepped in close to my mother, her palm resting gently on his chest.

And I watched the whole thing happen.

Forgetting, again, to breathe.

Warren was the reason I’d almost canceled.

Especially after I spent too long in the house, waiting for Hassani to show up, only to get a call from him telling me to go to my mother’s without him.

“The vendor for the community center’s flooring sent the wrong shipment of tiles.” He sighed on the line. “I gotta stay a little later to approve an alternative.”

His words sent my heart sinking, my head going light.

The idea of having to come to dinner alone—to meet my mother’s new boyfriend for the first time—felt like scaling a steep mountain barefoot.

My mother had moved on.

And while I was happy for her, while I wanted this for her, something about it—something about her moving on, albeit several years later—broke me.

“So we’re having dinner by the door tonight, yeah?”

Mr. Franklin’s voice boomed from inside the kitchen.

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