“At least what he’s told you is good, I hope?” I ask.
She beams— a look that Sebastian clearly inherited from her, pleased and warm and cheeky, then says, “Trust me, if you’ve got any bad qualities, it’s clear my boy hasn’t noticed.” Then she hugs me.
Hugs me, her arms tight around mine, and she smells like Oil of Olay and face powder and peppermint gum. She hugs me like I’m important, like she’s truly happy to see me, and even though I go stiff and alarmed and unsure, she doesn’t let go until she’s satisfied; then she smiles broadly at me, links her arm with mine, and leads me into the restaurant. Sebastian follows behind us, like he’s been brought here as a bodyguard rather than a dining companion.
We sit down an order an offensive amount of sushi, along with nachos as an appetizer, and make small talk for a while— long enough for me to notice that put-together and smiling as Mrs. Slate is, I can still see there are dark circles hiding beneath her under-eye concealer. Her voices pitches here and there, and when there’s even the slightest chance the conversation could tilt toward her husband, she hurriedly changes the subject. Perhaps this is why she’s so eager to talk about me— she thinks it’ll steer us clear of Dennis Slate.
If only she knew.
“What about your parents? What do they do?” Mrs. Slate asks. Sebastian gives me a curious look as well— he doesn’t know, either.
“My father was killed in action when I was very young— Afghanistan,” I say swiftly, hurrying past the pitying looks on both their faces, “and my mother works for a dog rescue. She’s the one that oversees all the transporting— you know, getting a dog pulled from a shelter in Florida up to Michigan, things like that.”
“What a lovely job! She must be a really remarkable lady. I mean, obviously she must be, if she raised a daughter like you,” Mrs. Slate says cheerfully.
“She gets it, Mom, you like her,” Sebastian says playfully, elbowing her. He’s crunched into one of the restaurant’s chairs that, underneath him, looks hilariously too-small. I can barely look at him without laughing.
“Well, I’m just glad you seem serious about someone for once! Four years of dallying around—“
“Oh my god, stop, please,” Sebastian says, putting a hand over his face.
My mouth drops in delight— Sebastian Slate, embarrassed?
“Go on,” I urge her. “Who was the worst one he ever introduced you to?”
“Help me,” Sebastian prays toward the sky.
Mrs. Slate is undeterred. “He never introduces me to girls, actually— that’s why I know you must be a real catch, Ashlynn. But I did hear through Carson that one of the girls Sebastian was bringing around had a tattoo that was supposed to say “beauty” in Chinese, but she’d got it done in some cheap shop and apparently it said “noodle”. Noodle. Like her arm was something you order off a menu!”
I laugh loudly, and Sebastian shakes his head, flushing so hard that it makes me laugh even harder— which makes his mom crack up. Her laugh is bell-like and giggly, like a schoolgirl’s, and from the look of surprise on Sebastian’s face I can’t help but wonder if she laughs all that often, given what’s going on in her life. I wonder if she’s as certain of her husband’s innocence as Sebastian is. I mean, it can’t be easy, knowing your husband was sleeping with a woman who looked nothing like you, who’s half your age. To accept that he’s vile enough to do that, and then decide to draw the line at murder? Wasn’t the fact that he was cheating evidence enough that Dennis Slate wasn’t quite who she thought he was?
I find myself wanting to ask— the same way I’d wanted to ask Sebastian back in the car home from the law library. I won’t, of course; it’d be cruel, and despite the fact that this woman is part of the force keeping my aunt’s murderer out of jail, I don’t want to hurt her. I don’t want to make her sad, I don’t want to remind her what an awful world she’s living in, I don’t want to ask her how she can share a bed with a man like Dennis Slate. And, frankly, I don’t want to hear her answer if it’s going to be like Sebastian’s— one of unwavering support. She’s just such a clearly nice person, like both of her sons that I’ve met. How can she have space for a man like Dennis Slate in her heart?
“Now, anyhow— you’re a freshman, right? Have you declared a major?” Mrs. Slate asks, flicking her chopsticks around on her plate clumsily before lifting a piece of the California roll.
“I’m pre-law,” I say.
“Oh, good call. Lawyers make good money— I should know, we pay ours enough,” she says, shaking her head. “Well, you’ll be a great lawyer, Ashlynn. You’ve got the look for it. Your eyes are all steel.”