Page 24 of Only After We Met

“You’re still a mama’s boy. Come on, let’s sit down.”

We settled next to each other at the table. She took my hand in hers, and I knew she wouldn’t let it go until our food arrived. We were on the glassed-in balcony of the Soho Grand, with views of the beautiful blue sky, broken by nothing but the vapor trails ofairplanes flying over town. The waiter came to take our order, and when he left, I took a deep breath, finally starting to calm down.

“You need to cut your hair, Rhys.”

“I just did,” I said as she tugged at it, as if trying to gauge the length of every lock. “Don’t be a pain.”

She smiled, shook her head, and stopped.

Our food was served soon afterward. Two plates of spaghetti carbonara and water, which I hoped would dilute everything I’d drunk the night before.

“I think I’m a fucking pasta addict.”

“Rhys, your mouth. You always have had a penchant for noodles: ramen, macaroni, all that. I don’t care for it much, if you want to know my opinion.”

“I remember that recipe you used to make with the shrimp sauce.”

“You cleaned your plate every time.”

I smiled. So did she. And that was enough. We ate, we caught up, and eighteen months of absence and sporadic phone calls went out the window. We were, once again, a mother and a son talking about whatever, with no tension. Before that fateful Christmas, we’d been close, and I’d liked hanging out with her: going out to eat, shopping for groceries, catching a flick. I remember it used to surprise me how distant my friends’ relationships with their parents were, as if they were strangers living in the same home. Then everything changed, and the secrets and the harsh words destroyed the pleasant memories.

“Where are you headed now?” she asked.

“Los Angeles. I think. Yeah, Los Angeles.”

“How do you not know?”

I shrugged, looking at her. “I’m still sort of turning it over.”

I didn’t tell her why. She already knew. Too many years. Too many conversations. Too many reproaches. Sometimes I couldn’t even tell myself why I felt that strange satisfaction every time I reached an airport with no ticket and nothing but a bag on my back. That tickle when I didn’t know what plane I’d get on. The hours waiting, drinking coffee, reading books, listening to music, and watching people go back and forth. It was addictive.

We shared a dessert.

“I’ll come for a longer visit next time.”

“Does that mean you’ll come back home?”

“Home, no. Close.”

“Rhys, honey…if only you’d tell me what happened.”

“You already know, Mom. He didn’t understand. He wanted me to follow in his footsteps, take over the investments, all that bullshit,” I lied.

She hesitated, then nodded. “Does that mean you had to end up like this?”

“The argument got out of hand.”

“You need to sit down and talk.”

“I can’t. Things have changed.” I shrugged.

I pretended not to care. I pretended not to feel anything. I wanted to get up and walk out, but I held back, smiled, and feigned things I didn’t feel just to make her happy. I wanted to ask about Dad, find out if he was okay, but as always, I didn’t. We spent a few more hours walking around the shops and having coffee. Then it got late, and she ordered an Uber to her hotel.

We waited until it arrived.

“Will he pick you up at the airport when you get home tomorrow?” I asked.

“Yeah, don’t worry about that.”