I resign myself to the fact that there’s not a thing associated with me that Mrs. Tucker won’t find fault with.
Grabbing for the threads of my fraying patience, I say, “Most doctors really push for breastfeeding these days. The mother’s milk is calibrated to match the infant’s needs, and there are studies—”
“There are studies that prove anything,” she says disdainfully. She flicks the burner to low and moves toward the sink, where she begins to wash her hands vigorously. “I heard there was a study that said kids who are around alcohol tend to grow up to have a lot of problems. I hope that isn’t the case with Jamie.”
I place one foot over the other and stomp down, hoping the pain will serve as a distraction since grinding my molars isn’t doing the trick. I remind myself that Mrs. Tucker loves her son and that all her criticism, some of it founded, comes from a place of love. Not for me, but for her son. I should respect that.
“We aren’t going to live here forever,” I say with false cheerfulness.
I finish up with the dishes and then swing into the living room. Maybe the distance will keep me from saying something stupid out of anger. That would only cause more damage to the already difficult relationship I have with Tucker’s mom.
If I’m going to stay with Tucker, I need to make this thing with her work.
“Law school is going well. I got in with a great study group. They’re super important because we all help each other see the bigger picture. When I first started, I thought I wasn’t going to make any friends, but it was early day jitters for all of us.” I’m rambling as I tidy up my coursework. “There’s this one guy in my group—Simon—who’s a genius. He has a photographic memory plus this keen ability to really narrow in on the important issues. I get bogged down in the details too much.”
“Simon? You study with other men?”
I jerk upright at her suspicious tone.
“Yes, there are men in my class,” I answer carefully.
“Does John know about this?” She crosses her arms over her chest, looking at me as if I’d just confessed to boning another student in front of her son.
“Yes. He’s met Simon. We’ve studied here.” Well, actually at the bar. My study group loves to come here.
She shakes her head, the red-gold strands highlighted by the kitchen light behind her. “This is…” Another head shake. “Exactly what I expected,” she finishes.
A frown puckers my mouth. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that you take advantage of my son and have been doing it since the day you two met.”
I suck in a breath. “W-what?”
“How soon after you learned about his inheritance did you decide to trap him, Sabrina?” Her expression is colder than ice. “It’s pretty convenient how he pays for everything while you go off studying with another man.”
Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. Me.
I straighten fully, indignation injecting into my bloodstream.
It’s one thing for her to criticize my housekeeping. I suck at it.
I can handle her objection to the breastfeeding. I’m concerned about Jamie’s weight too, even though the doctor assures me it’s perfectly normal for breastfed babies to be underweight.
I don’t care if she derides my parenting, housekeeping or mothering skills from one side of Boston to the other.
But I won’t—I fucking won’t—stand for her whispering awful and unfounded suspicions in Tucker’s ear.
I can survive on my own. I don’t need Tucker—I want him. I want him so much that I’d give everything up to have him and Jamie.
With as much dignity as I have, I face Mrs. Tucker.
“I have so much respect for you. I’ve only been doing this mothering sh—stuff for four months and I’ve screwed up probably a thousand times. It’s hard, and I have Tucker, your amazing son, helping me every inch of the way. I can’t imagine how you did it on your own. But I’m not going to let you insult everything I do in this place. This is my home. Yes, I’m not perfect, but I’m trying. I love Jamie and I love Tucker and if, at any time, Harvard or work or anything threatens their happiness in any way, I would give it all up in a minute.”
Her brown eyes widen.
But I’m not done. “He and Jamie are the most important things in my life,” I say fiercely. “And everything I’m doing right now is to make sure that I keep them in my life, to make sure I can contribute to our family and give Jamie a better childhood than the one I had to deal with, even if it means studying with a man. Who, by the way, is happily married and has two kids of his own.”
There’s a rustling noise behind Mrs. Tucker, and the blot behind her head slowly comes into focus. It takes a second for me to realize it’s Tucker. He’s standing at the front door.
He leans an arm on the doorframe, a smile slanting across his face.
“You love me, huh?”
39
Tucker
Sabrina looks like she wants to crawl under a rock. Or maybe jump out one of the many windows in our apartment. I know she doesn’t like being put on the spot, and I probably wouldn’t even blame her if she decided to flee.
But whatever my mother said to her before I came home—and I intend on finding out every last word that was spoken—has clearly given Sabrina a dose of courage. She frowns briefly at my mom, then turns to me and meets my gaze straight on.
“I love you,” she confirms.
I take a step closer. “Since when?”
“Since fucking always.” When my mom winces, Sabrina gives her a sheepish look. “Sorry. Tuck and I are still going through a language transition. We don’t always remember to say ‘fudge’ and ‘sugar,’ okay?” She lifts an eyebrow. “Are you going to lecture me about that too?”
Mom’s lips twitch as if she’s trying not to laugh. “No,” she says faintly. “I’m not. In fact…” She makes a big show of slipping into her winter boots and coat. “I think I’ll take a walk around the block. I love looking at all the snow.”
“Bullshit,” I cough into my hands. My mom despises winter and we both know it.
She glares at me on her way to the door. “Please speed up this language transition, John.” And then she’s gone, and Sabrina and I exchange grins.
Grabbing for the threads of my fraying patience, I say, “Most doctors really push for breastfeeding these days. The mother’s milk is calibrated to match the infant’s needs, and there are studies—”
“There are studies that prove anything,” she says disdainfully. She flicks the burner to low and moves toward the sink, where she begins to wash her hands vigorously. “I heard there was a study that said kids who are around alcohol tend to grow up to have a lot of problems. I hope that isn’t the case with Jamie.”
I place one foot over the other and stomp down, hoping the pain will serve as a distraction since grinding my molars isn’t doing the trick. I remind myself that Mrs. Tucker loves her son and that all her criticism, some of it founded, comes from a place of love. Not for me, but for her son. I should respect that.
“We aren’t going to live here forever,” I say with false cheerfulness.
I finish up with the dishes and then swing into the living room. Maybe the distance will keep me from saying something stupid out of anger. That would only cause more damage to the already difficult relationship I have with Tucker’s mom.
If I’m going to stay with Tucker, I need to make this thing with her work.
“Law school is going well. I got in with a great study group. They’re super important because we all help each other see the bigger picture. When I first started, I thought I wasn’t going to make any friends, but it was early day jitters for all of us.” I’m rambling as I tidy up my coursework. “There’s this one guy in my group—Simon—who’s a genius. He has a photographic memory plus this keen ability to really narrow in on the important issues. I get bogged down in the details too much.”
“Simon? You study with other men?”
I jerk upright at her suspicious tone.
“Yes, there are men in my class,” I answer carefully.
“Does John know about this?” She crosses her arms over her chest, looking at me as if I’d just confessed to boning another student in front of her son.
“Yes. He’s met Simon. We’ve studied here.” Well, actually at the bar. My study group loves to come here.
She shakes her head, the red-gold strands highlighted by the kitchen light behind her. “This is…” Another head shake. “Exactly what I expected,” she finishes.
A frown puckers my mouth. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that you take advantage of my son and have been doing it since the day you two met.”
I suck in a breath. “W-what?”
“How soon after you learned about his inheritance did you decide to trap him, Sabrina?” Her expression is colder than ice. “It’s pretty convenient how he pays for everything while you go off studying with another man.”
Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. Me.
I straighten fully, indignation injecting into my bloodstream.
It’s one thing for her to criticize my housekeeping. I suck at it.
I can handle her objection to the breastfeeding. I’m concerned about Jamie’s weight too, even though the doctor assures me it’s perfectly normal for breastfed babies to be underweight.
I don’t care if she derides my parenting, housekeeping or mothering skills from one side of Boston to the other.
But I won’t—I fucking won’t—stand for her whispering awful and unfounded suspicions in Tucker’s ear.
I can survive on my own. I don’t need Tucker—I want him. I want him so much that I’d give everything up to have him and Jamie.
With as much dignity as I have, I face Mrs. Tucker.
“I have so much respect for you. I’ve only been doing this mothering sh—stuff for four months and I’ve screwed up probably a thousand times. It’s hard, and I have Tucker, your amazing son, helping me every inch of the way. I can’t imagine how you did it on your own. But I’m not going to let you insult everything I do in this place. This is my home. Yes, I’m not perfect, but I’m trying. I love Jamie and I love Tucker and if, at any time, Harvard or work or anything threatens their happiness in any way, I would give it all up in a minute.”
Her brown eyes widen.
But I’m not done. “He and Jamie are the most important things in my life,” I say fiercely. “And everything I’m doing right now is to make sure that I keep them in my life, to make sure I can contribute to our family and give Jamie a better childhood than the one I had to deal with, even if it means studying with a man. Who, by the way, is happily married and has two kids of his own.”
There’s a rustling noise behind Mrs. Tucker, and the blot behind her head slowly comes into focus. It takes a second for me to realize it’s Tucker. He’s standing at the front door.
He leans an arm on the doorframe, a smile slanting across his face.
“You love me, huh?”
39
Tucker
Sabrina looks like she wants to crawl under a rock. Or maybe jump out one of the many windows in our apartment. I know she doesn’t like being put on the spot, and I probably wouldn’t even blame her if she decided to flee.
But whatever my mother said to her before I came home—and I intend on finding out every last word that was spoken—has clearly given Sabrina a dose of courage. She frowns briefly at my mom, then turns to me and meets my gaze straight on.
“I love you,” she confirms.
I take a step closer. “Since when?”
“Since fucking always.” When my mom winces, Sabrina gives her a sheepish look. “Sorry. Tuck and I are still going through a language transition. We don’t always remember to say ‘fudge’ and ‘sugar,’ okay?” She lifts an eyebrow. “Are you going to lecture me about that too?”
Mom’s lips twitch as if she’s trying not to laugh. “No,” she says faintly. “I’m not. In fact…” She makes a big show of slipping into her winter boots and coat. “I think I’ll take a walk around the block. I love looking at all the snow.”
“Bullshit,” I cough into my hands. My mom despises winter and we both know it.
She glares at me on her way to the door. “Please speed up this language transition, John.” And then she’s gone, and Sabrina and I exchange grins.
