Page 90 of Before We're More Than Friends
Arielle’s face pinched. “Of course.” She sat at the kitchen table and pulled out her phone, her fingers flying across the screen.
“Thank you for dinner, Mom,” I said as I sat beside Arielle. I glanced over at her screen, but I couldn’t make out who she was texting, but they were already replying to her.
Arielle caught me looking at her screen. “Nosy much?”
“Rude much?” I muttered back.
“Girls, please.” Mom faced us, her face stern. “We’re not doing this.”
“Sorry,” we both said, but mine sounded more sincere than Arielle’s did.
“I won’t lie, this took me a few tries,” Mom said as she poured the pasta onto three plates. “But I hated that I had to cancel our night out, so I wanted to surprise you a day I got home from work early.” She beamed as she brought two of the plates over to the table and sat them down in front of us. “I also have garlic bread. I know it’s nothing like I used to make, but I hope it’s enough.”
I smiled, my heart warming as I took in the aroma of the pasta decked out in sauce. “This looks delicious, Mom.”
Arielle sniffed like she was a dog, closing her eyes. “It does. Thank you.”
“Anything for you girls.” Mom brought over the last plate of pasta and a plate of garlic bread. “Let me just get the drinks, and then we can dive in.”
Penrose came into the kitchen, her tail wagging, and sat beside my feet, looking at me with her big eyes.
“You forgot to make a plate for Penrose,” I said as I leaned down to rub behind Penrose’s ears.
“Sorry, girl.” Mom placed glasses of sweet tea on the table before sitting in her usual spot. “Per favore, benedici il nostro cibo,” she said, a prayer I hadn’t heard in a long time. When we were little, she used to slip bits of Italian into her speech, but as she got older, she shifted from her roots as Patricia De Luca and becoming rooted in Patsy Vermont. The same warmth that used to fill my chest when she spoke Italian overcame me. “Buon appetite.”
Arielle shoved the garlic bread in her mouth, not giving herself any room to breathe.
Mom giggled. “My goodness.”
“This is so freaking good,” Arielle said while chewing, her words barely audible.
“Thank you.” Mom brushed her hair back. “I wasn’t sure if I still had it in me.”
“You do,” I said as I ate my pasta, though I wasn’t eating sloppily like Arielle. I couldn’t help but to beam through my bites. I was slowly getting my mom back after years of watching her fade in horror.
“Thank you.” Mom’s cheeks flushed before she cleared her throat. “I do have news for the two of you, though. And no, it is not related to . . .” Her eyes traveled to the counter with the envelopes on them. “It’s news that you might like.”
Of course there was an occasion for this dinner. There was always an occasion for something.
Arielle slowed her eating, finally giving herself the chance to breathe. She exchanged a concerned look with me before asking, “What is it?”
“I signed up for the recovery program at the local hospital,” Mom said, her hands starting to shake as she clasped them together. She hadn’t touched her food yet. “It’ll be everyMonday, starting next week. I was able to work it out with my boss to cut my Monday shifts in half so I can attend.” She swallowed, her eyes locking with Arielle’s. “I don’t want this to be an empty promise.”
A few moments of silence passed by before I broke the ice. “I’m proud of you.” And I meant it.
“Me too,” Arielle said, though she stared at her plate.
“It’s going to be a long road,” Mom said. “But I’m willing to drive down it if it means I can get to the destination I want to be.” She finally touched her fork. “Arielle, you were right when you said you two don’t have real parents anymore. I expect you to be more respectful, but I know I’ve caused just as much pain as your father has.”
“Yeah.” Arielle fiddled with her own fork. “But I really want you to follow through this time.”
“I won’t break my promise.” Mom reached her hands out on the table. I grabbed hers and squeezed it, but it took a few seconds for Arielle to do the same. Tears shone in Mom’s eyes. “You don’t break promises to people you love.”
“You don’t,” Arielle said before letting go of Mom’s hand.
Mom nodded, wiping a tear that fell down her cheeks. She let go of my hand and started eating her pasta.
“I love you, Mom,” I said, looking her in the eyes. I was used to the distressed look of guilt in them, but it wasn’t there now. There was a sliver of hope in the sea of brown.
