Quadruple Duty

She was twirling her hair as she talked. It was something she did often, usually whenever she was nervous or excited. I don’t think she realized it though. That part made it even cuter.

“Are they good or bad motives?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“On how you’re going to feel about this.”

I could tell she was struggling. That whatever she was about to tell me was something she’d considered for a while. I couldn’t possibly imagine it being bad. Nothing about her was bad.

“Alright, let’s hear it.”

She looked stunningly gorgeous tonight. Maybe that was part of her whole plan. To look so good, so totally delectable, I couldn’t keep my mind or eyes or even my hands off her.

Plus it was nice, being out just the two of us. Getting to monopolize our girlfriend for the evening. She’d also taken me to a steakhouse. The best one in the city.

Hey, if you’re going to butter me up for something, she was doing a bang-up job so far.

“Sooo?”

She still hadn’t said anything. I was starting to get worried.

“Sammara, you can tell me anything,” I assured her. “Especially in that dress.”

She smiled, but I could still sense the apprehension behind it. I reached out and closed my hand over hers.

“I… I want to prefac

e this by saying—”

The waiter arrived, setting dessert down before us with two spoons. Some kind of salted-caramel lava cake. Probably have to do a thousand sit-ups just to get rid of half of it.

Looked like it would be worth it, though.

“I want you to be happy,” Sammara said.

“I am happy.” I shrugged. “Happier than I’ve ever been in my life.”

“I know…” she said. “But I want to make sure there’s nothing… missing.”

She reached down onto her bag and pulled something out. It was a folder. Now I really was confused.

“This…” she said, removing a big glossy photograph, “is a picture of your mother.”

She laid the image on the table, almost reverently. When I didn’t do anything at all, she pushed it across to me.

“So?”

I wouldn’t even look at the photo. Wouldn’t even give it the dignity of a quick glance.

“Her name was—”

“I don’t give a shit, Sammara. Her name is irrelevant.”

Somehow, I’d snapped at her. It happened quickly, without me even realizing what I was doing. Like a reflex, or—

—or a defense mechanism.