Page 61 of Marriage (Red, White &) Blues

“Honey, I know that. We’re a team. You’d never betray your teammate.”

“Given that I actually haven’t met your mom yet, I’m looking forward to bringing her out here.”

With a slump of my shoulders, I admitted to my husband the thing that I didn’t want him to know. “I still haven’t talked to her.”

Blake jerked his head in my direction. “What do you mean you haven’t talked to her?”

“She’s left some voicemails but I never called her back. I sent a text that said I’ve been super busy and I’d call when I could, if it makes you feel better.”

“Gloria—you’ve got to be shitting me?”

“I don’t know what to say to her now.”

“You say ‘you hurt me when you kept Carl from me, but you’re my mom.’”

I huffed out a sharp breath. “You wouldn’t say that to your mom.”

He slammed on the brakes and we both jutted forward. “Adair gave birth to me but has never been a mom. We’re talking apples and broccoli, here.”

“Don’t snap at me.” Tears started welling in my eyes. “It’s a complicated situation. And I don’t know, it just felt easier to let it go.”

He pulled off to the shoulder of the road, shifting into park, and pulled me against him for a hug. “Glory—” He sighed. “I’m sorry I snapped at you and I know she hurt you, but she’s also your only parent. Give her a call, if not for you, do it for me—a wedding present.”

“The ass play in Mexico wasn’t enough?” When he failed to laugh the way I hoped he would, I agreed, “Fine. I’ll call. But you get to field the questions about why I was photographed at Brockton Parker rallies.”

“Deal.” He smiled down at me, shifting out of park, but refused to move until he kissed me. I deserved a damn kiss after this mess of a morning. He definitely took the hint and my heart felt full again.

“And Glory—I’ll be right there with you holding your hand if you want me to be.”

“This might be more of aholding me on your lap for maximum moral supportkind of call.”

He shook his head. “The things I do for my wife.”

“Well, as long as you’re doing things for your wife” —I pointed to the road— “maybe you could get the car moving again?”

On the drive home I tried to plan out exactly what I wanted to say to my mom when we talked. My head was a mess of potential conversations and all the ways my mother could respond to my invite. My heartrate spiked to painful levels as those responses turned uncomfortable or downright angry, because I worried about how Robert Parker would react if she failed to show. But at the same time, I worried more about his reaction if she did.

Blake unlocked the front door because he already had his key out. I kicked off my shoes but he walked with his shoes on into the kitchen. Then I jogged upstairs to change into my comfies. I simply couldn’t place a call of this magnitude to my only surviving parent wearing brunch drab. I desired color and comfort for such a momentous task.

This call required my piano kitty leggings and the rust-colored T-shirt that used to belong to my dad. The fabric hung down to my knees and offered absolutely no shape. Then I pulled on my pale pink slipper socks. We kept the air on even though it’d technically on the cusp of fall. The weather didn’t care about technicalities. It wanted to stay summer, so we stayed summer.

I laid out Blake’s favorite crimson joggers and worn-out Harvard T-shirt, the one he’d owned since before graduating from there six years ago.

Helovedthat washed-out shirt and I loved Blake, so I saw no problem him with him wearing it—especially not when he bald-faced lied to me about thinking my piano kitty leggings were cute.

As I wandered back downstairs, I heard the distinct sound of a blenderzsuzsing coming from the kitchen.

“Sit your cute piano kitty bottom down on the sofa,” he called out to me, and—and how the heck did he know about my piano kitty leggings to begin with? It appeared I’d married a mind reader.

“I can—” I started to respond, but got cut off abruptly by his response.

“Sit your cute butt down.”

“Okay… okay… calm your tits there, buddy. I’m sitting.”

His laugh carried out to the living room. The sound lightened my mood while I waited on the sofa. After about ten minutes, Blake walked out of the kitchen carrying a frozen strawberry daiquiri in one hand and a beer in the other. He set the beer down on a coaster, then handed me my drink, pecked a quick kiss to my lips, and said, “Be right back.”

The man jogged back into the kitchen, reemerging a moment later carrying a large charcuterie platter filled with meats, cheeses, veggies, dips, and bread and crackers.

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