Page 50 of Canadian Boyfriend

I chose to answer Aurora. Looked at her and smiled. “Yep. Her two favorite things were the convertible and your class.”

“That’s so nice!” She was blinking rapidly.

“Well, youdohave a dance pedigree,” Heather said.

“I don’t think it’s that,” I said, trying to keep my tone even, when really I wanted to call this woman some unflattering names. “It’s more that she’s a great teacher. Funny, patient, kind.”

“I’ve been encouraging her to seek employment at the Minnesota Ballet Center, where she trained before she gave up on her career. I’m sure they’d take her in a heartbeat, and it would be much more gratifying than that… suburban place.”

“‘Encouraging,’” I echoed. “Hmm. Yes, it’s wonderful to have a parent who can encourage you.”

Aurora started coughing, and I was pretty sure she was trying to cover laughter. So I kept going. “I personally am always encouraging my daughter.” The coughing amped up.

“I’m sure you are.” Heather beamed at me. “To what end?”

“Mostly I encourage her to be less of a jerk, but you know, also to do her homework and stuff.”

Aurora lost her battle and started audibly laughing. Heather looked startled, though I wasn’t sure if it was because of my answer or her daughter’s mirth. “Most former ballet dancers find a career in teaching,” she said weakly.

Aurora cleared her throat. “I’m sure the turkey must be done by now. Shall we eat?”

Dinner was turkey.

That’s it. That’s the end of the sentence. Christmas dinner was turkey.

To be fair, as Heather was carving the turkey, Aurora microwaved a package of frozen green beans.

We didn’t stay long after dinner, fending off Heather’s suggestion that we should go for a walk to “burn off the big dinner.” I behaved myself as we said our goodbyes and waved as Aurora backed out of the driveway—we’d come in her car. My car that was hers. Whatever.

Once we’d put enough distance between ourselves and Heather, I turned in my seat and said, “What the hell?”

She laughed. “I know, right? I’m sorry.”

“I’msorry. I don’t know why you haven’t cut her off.”

“I don’t know why I haven’t cut her off, either.”

Actually, I knew, or I thought I did. “Is it because she supposedly invested so much energy and money in your ballet career? Do you feel indebted to her?”

“Ding, ding, ding. I think we have a winner.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but that’s not right. You don’t owe her. She owes you. She owes you what every parent owes their kid: love, support, cheerleading. But mostly love.”

“I think my mother probably does love me.”

“Probably?”

“That’s kind of screwed up, isn’t it?” She scrunched her nose. “You want to hear something embarrassing? I wear makeup when I see my mother because she doesn’t like my freckles.”

“Your freckles are cute!” I protested.

She glanced at me, then back at the road. Shit. Should I not have said that?

“You know what’s even more embarrassing? I wear makeup all kinds of places I otherwise might not, like to teach. It’s a reflexive habit. Like I have to do what my mother wants me to even when she’s not there. I… bend myself to please her.”

I wasn’t sure what to say, so I went with, “Well, I’m glad you didn’t go over there yesterday and spend twenty-four hours bending yourself.”

“Yeah, the shorter duration was better.”

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