Holding Onto Forever

“Everyone is so thrilled you chose Beaumont,” Mrs. Kline says. Her and her husband have owned the only wedding store in town for years. I was fitted here for each tuxedo I wore to prom. “Are you doing the flowers?” Mrs. Kline asks my mom, who is sitting in the corner, watching me as I get poked with needles.

“I’m not. I passed the job onto another florist in Allenville. I don’t want to fret over the finer details while Noah is getting married.”

My stomach rumbles just as Mr. Kline tells me I’m done. Ever so gingerly, I walk off the platform and into the dressing room where I carefully step out of my pants. I dress quickly and meet my mom by the door.

“Want to grab lunch?”

She smiles softly. “Sure, Noah.”

After I open the car door for her, I run around to the other side. Beaumont is small. Everyone knows everyone. But they don’t bother my dad or I for autographs, which is rather nice. However, small also means our options for lunch are limited. I decide to take her to Ralph’s. Not the classiest place, but the lunch menu is decent and the place is big enough that we’ll be able to talk.

My mom doesn’t hide her emotions well. I know something is bothering her, and honestly, I’ve been avoiding her. In all the years I’ve been dating, I’ve never asked her if she’s liked any of my girlfriends. Mostly, because I was afraid that whoever I was with at the time wouldn’t live up to her standards. Not that she has crazy high expectations, but I’m her son, and I think it’s hard for moms to let go.

A few years back, the owner of Ralph’s died. The band did a huge tribute to him, mostly out of respect for my dad. It was here, when my dad played a song he had written for my mother, that everything changed for them.

We step into the pub that hasn’t changed much over the years. The lights are still fairly dim, the floor is some kind of tile, but no one knows what color it is. The stage is waiting for the next band to set-up. I wave at Ralph’s son, who is now running the place. We call him Ralph, even though his name is Charlie, and he doesn’t correct us, so I assume he doesn’t mind.

“Hey Josie, Noah. What can I get you to drink?” Lonnie, the lone waitress asks.

Mom and I both order water.

“I haven’t eaten here in years.” I peruse the menu, trying to remember what’s good. Honestly, most pub food is good as long as you don’t try to get too fancy and order a steak or seafood.

“It’s because you never come home.” Mom sounds bitter, but I get it. “Paige loves the steak fries here.”

I decide quickly on a burger, fries and a chocolate shake, and set my menu down so I can focus my attention on the woman across from me. For the longest time, she was my best friend and cheerleader, and while she’s still my number one fan, something has shifted. Since Christmas, she’s been unusually quiet and I have a feeling it’s because of the situation I’m in.

As soon as she puts the menu down, I lean toward her. “Talk to me.”

“I’m fine, Noah.”

“Rule number one,” I start to say, closing my mouth as the waitress arrives. We give her our orders and once she’s out of sight, I look at my mom and smile. “As I was saying. Dad has always preached if a woman says fine, you know she’s not. Don’t make me use the word.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would. I so would.”

Mom squints her eyes as she looks at me, testing my resolve. I cock my eyebrow at her and smirk. “Mommy, please tell me what’s wrong.” My lower lip juts out as her willpower crumbles. Only, she ends up covering her face. Her shoulder shakes and there’s a soft whimper coming from behind her hands.

I’m up and out of my seat, sliding into her booth and wrapping her in my arms. “I’m sorry, Mom. Whatever it is. I’m so sorry.”

She pulls her hands away and wipes away her tears. “I’m fine, Noah.”

“Clearly, you’re not.”

“I don’t want to hurt your feelings.”

“Hurt them. I don’t care.” It’s not like I’m feeling much these days anyway.

Mom takes a deep breath. She looks at me before she stares down at her napkin. “I don’t like Dessie. I never have. I think she treats you poorly, is self-centered and I’m questioning if she’s even pregnant.”

My gaze lands on what was my seat until I moved to comfort my mom. The torn and worn out pleather shows its age. The inside lining of the booth is threadbare and it’s only a matter of time until there’s nothing left of the cushions. Her last statement replays through my mind. I can’t make heads nor tails of it.