Page 53 of Hypothetical Heart
Her tone doesn’t suggest anything, and anyone else would think their mom was simply checking in, but I know mine too well. In my mom’s eyes, school dances are romantic, and romantic events require dates.
“No, I don’t have a date, Mom,” I sigh.
“Who said I was asking that?” She laughs, pulling her favorite cutting board out of the cabinet.
“You don’t need to ask for me to guess what you want to know.”
“I think you should go with Winnie,” she says bluntly.
This is the same scheme she pulled on all of us during homecoming when she somehow conned us all into going in pairs. Winnie and I went together, as well as Jameson and Genevieve, and Luke and Eloise.
“Mom.” Going to homecoming with Winnie was hard enough for the two of us. I don’t want to be forced into that again.
“Logan,” she counters. “It’s prom, for God’s sake, and everyone knows how much you want to take Winnie.” I do want to take Winnie, but not when it’s my mom’s doing.
“I’m going to ignore that statement,” I say, reaching over to grab one of the carrots she cut up, popping it in my mouth.
“Would you just ask her?” Mom asks. “For me?”
“Haven’t you done enough school dance meddling?” I take another carrot, and this time, she smacks my hand.
“Well, look how well it worked for Gen and Jameson.” Yeah, the fact they’re now together does not work in my favor.
“That’s not the point.”
“It is, though!” she exclaims, setting down her knife. “You and Winnie would be good together!”
It’s the same mantra she has been chanting my entire life, but especially since Susan died. I can’t say that it’s not my wish too, but if I openly admit that to my mom, this poking and prodding would never end.
Mom doesn’t know about the time I went to Winnie’s house in the pouring rain and pleaded with her to try to be more than friends. She doesn’t know how it ended before it even began because Winnie’s mom died three days later.
She just thinks we're being stubborn.
And maybe we are, but I know deep down it comes from a place of fear. We’re both terrified of screwing up again.
“Mom, I don’t even know if she likes me in that way,” I lie.
“How will you ever know if you don’t try?” she counters.
“This isn’t a new hobby I’m thinking of taking up. This is Winnie we’re talking about. She’s been my best friend my entire life.”
“Are you scared about it not working out?”
Yes, and the fact that my mom has been waiting for us to get together our entire lives, and if we try again just for it to go up in flames, Winnie and I won’t be the only ones who get hurt.
“I haven’t put much thought into it if I’m being honest.” I’m lying through my fucking teeth, and my mom knows it.
“I’m sure you haven’t.” She smirks.
I hop down from the counter. “Alright, is that all you needed?”
“Yup, that’s all. Dinner will be ready soon.”
“Okay.” I head back upstairs, stopping at the top where the piano sits.
I take a seat at the stool, flexing my hands as I stretch my fingers. The book of sheet music is still open to the last song I played, and if it weren’t for my mom’s cleaning tendencies, the keys would probably have a layer of dust.
I grew up with a love-hate relationship with playing. I always wanted to learn—that’s why my parents bought a grand piano for my sixth birthday—but I was a bit slower learning the keys and reading the notes of sheet music. Learning to play different keys with either hand was an entirely different struggle.
