Page 8 of Dying to Meet You
“Yeah, I know. I’mtotallysneaking out to meet him later.”
Oh Jesus. I pound on the door. Angrily. “Natalie?”
Taytay stops singing, mid-note. “I gotta go,” my daughter mutters. “Call you later.”
There’s a delay before the door opens, and when it does, I’m startled by the person looking back at me. In the first place, Natalie is five eight, so I actually have to tilt my chin to make eye contact.
In my mind, Natalie is eleven and wearing her Wonder WomanT-shirt with cutoffs and sneakers. She’s not this startlingly beautiful young woman with high cheekbones and poreless skin.
Natalie’s wide, gray eyes are currently made up in a style that makes her look thirty, not sixteen. It isn’t garish. The colors are muted and done with a level of skill and sophistication that I have never achieved in my lifetime and never will. Even if I were willing to watch ten thousand hours of TikTok makeup tutorials. Which I’m not.
She’s wearing a very short denim skirt and a cropped blouse that shows off long limbs and endless tight, youthful skin. It’s a humid June night, and I have no logical standing against this skimpy outfit that looks adorable on her.
Her scowl is her only unattractive feature. “God, Mom.What?”
I bite back my frustration, which is a thing I do a lot. “I was calling you for dinner, but now I’dloveto hear who you plan on ‘sneaking out’ to see? Your words, not mine.”
Her scowl deepens as her glance slides conveniently away. She grabs her ever-present phone off the vanity and shoves it into an impossibly hip little clutch purse I’ve never seen before. “Nobody,” she grunts. “Just a boy. But it doesn’t matter, because it’s not even true. That was just smack talk for my friends.”
“Oh.”
It is, of course, the exact right thing to tell me. Who among us hasn’t exaggerated to sound less pathetic? I do it hourly.
“What’s for dinner?” she asks, sliding past me into the hall and heading for the stairs.
“Pesto pasta salad. It’s already on the table.”
“Omigod, I can’t eat that. Too much garlic.” She practically sprints down the stairs. “I’ll eat something at Tessa’s.”
“But Nat!” I chase her down the stairs. “I cooked.”
“I’ll have some tomorrow,” she says in the kitchen. “Can I borrow the car?”
“No,” I say as a reflex. “Where are you even going?”
“To Tessa’s, like I just said.” She shrugs. “We’re studying for the bio final. It’s the worst one.”
“Oh.” I hesitate. “Then you might as well take the car.” Natalie is a very new driver, and I’m still struggling with the idea it’s legal for my sixteen-year-old to get behind the wheel of my Volvo and just drive away unsupervised.
But her best friend lives on the other side of town, and if I don’t send her in the car, she’s going to take her bike, which is possibly even more dangerous.
To her, anyway. If not to innocent bystanders.
“You sure?” she asks. “You said it’s book club night.”
Honestly, I’m surprised she remembered. It’s a rare day when she actually listens to anything I say.
“I’m blowing off book club.”
She gives me an arch look that teenage girls must practice in front of the mirror. “Got a better offer? Or are you just going to stay home and mope?”
“Just take the damn car.”
She grins, and it’s a little evil. “Bet you wouldn’t have made pesto if Mr. Stupid was still in the picture.”
“Well, now that you mention it.”
She laughs, and I’m hit with a wave of tenderness for my daughter. Natalie didn’t start referring to Tim as Mr. Stupid until he abruptly dumped me a few days ago. The loyalty is nice, even if it’s new.
