Bad Intentions - Too Bad It’s Fake

“You did? When?” Mom asked.

“A few days ago,” I joked, but Mom seemed to be oblivious. “I was saving it as a surprise for the gala.”

“Oh, how wonderful!”

“I’m glad you think so, even though the surprised is now ruined,” I snipped.

Mom’s high expectations meant that a suit had to be designer. She had seen me in suits before, some very expensive, but if it wasn’t from Savile Row, it wasn’t a suit to Mom.

“Oh, I’m sure it will still be a surprise,” Mom said as she patted me on the cheek.

“Really?”

“Oh yes, in my experience, there is rather a large difference between the idea of something and the fact of it.”

“Don’t I know it,” I mused.

“Don’t be saucy and please do not use contractions. It is so common.”

“Indeed, it is. In that, it is what most people do,” I pointed out.

“And you don’t want to be like most people. I certainly don’t, you are special, my boy. You should always seek to be the best that you can be.”

“Which is better than the unwashed masses,” I groaned.

“You said it, dear, but yes, I cannot help but disagree. Ordinary is fine for most people but we both know that you are bound for better things. I mean, how old were you when you graduated law school.”

“Twenty-three, Mom. You know that.”

“Right, and how did you manage such a feat?”

“You got me skipped two grades, so I graduated when I was sixteen. Then forced me to go into law school after finishing my undergraduate degree.”

She tutted. “Encouraged. I encouraged you to go to law school and can you blame me? Your majors weren’t exactly useful.”

“Not for getting rich, no,” I agreed.

“And who doesn’t want to be rich? I was just worried about your future, honey.”

“Because heaven forbid, I be in the middle class.”

“Oh!” Mom cried, clutching her chest like she had been stabbed, “please do not say things like that. You know I grew up poor and that sort of tragedy is nothing to make light of.”

“Great-grandpa was a plumber,” I pointed out.

“Exactly and your father and I both want better things for you.”

“My father?”

“Yes.”

“My father, who was an architect?” I asked.

“My point exactly!”

“Point taken,” I said, doing my best not to laugh.

Mom frowned but lightened up after a second. “Anyway, who was that little beauty I saw you with?”

“Beauty?” I asked playing dumb.

“Don’t play dumb with me, young man.”

“Who’s playing?”

“Come now, she was in your arms in the café next door and you were smooching, it was very clear what was going on.”

“You’re right, I can’t fool you.”

“Darn tootin’,” Mom said smugly.

“Her name is Emma and, well, we’re engaged.”

“You are?” Mom asked, her arms dropping, followed closely by her expression.

“Yeah, for a couple months now. I know I should have told you. I was cruel to keep it a secret, but I really wasn’t sure how you would react to her if you knew.”

Mom’s frown deepened. “Why? What’s wrong with her?”

“She’s, um, a waitress,” I said, thinking fast for a plausible reason, “I don’t think she went to college either.”

“Oh, hey, that’s not a problem,” Mom said, surprising us both.

“Really?” I asked.

“No, of course not, nobody’s perfect and if she makes you happy, which she clearly does, that’s all that matters. I’m just glad that you’re finally settling down. She looks like a good, healthy girl. She should have lots of strong babies.”

“We haven’t really talked about that but yeah,” I said, my head still whirling. Mom seriously couldn’t have surprised me more if she had said she was moving to Afghanistan to farm heroin.

“How old is she?” Mom asked.

“Twenty-seven,” I said.

“Oh, that is a good age. Old enough to be mature, young enough to still be in her prime.”

“That’s the idea,” I teased with a sly wink.

“Oh, you!” Mom said, giving me a playful shove, “I guess we don’t wave to invite Gina to the gala, now.”

“We?” I asked.

“Okay, I guess I don’t have to bring Gina to the event.”

“Might be a bit awkward if she came,” I said, trying to keep it casual but honestly on the very tipping edge of doing Snoopy happy dances.

“No kidding! Oh! I’m so happy!” she exclaimed, hugging me and turning me toward the elevator. “You have to tell me everything!”

“I-I’m just going back up to the office,” I said.

“Oh, I get it, a bit of a lunchtime smooch,” Mom said.

“Yeah,” I said, not daring to tell her the truth.

“That’s fine, honey, you can tell me on the way up!”

She took me by the hand and led me toward the elevator, her grip stronger than an iron bar — from years of practice with my sister and me.

I felt kind of bad for lying but it made Mom so happy, and I was also unspeakably relieved that I wouldn’t have to see Gina again — a fact which almost made all the subterfuge worth it in and of themselves.