Just Pretend (Love Comes To Town)

“Well,” Wynona says. “When you put it like that…”

“Ignore her,” Josie cuts in. “It’s his own damn fault for offering you a job when he was about to kiss you instead.”

“I don’t know for sure that he was about to kiss me,” I point out. “I could’ve misread the situation.”

She snorts. “Yeah, because I’ve always been offered jobs when the person is leaning across the table going for my lips. Especially judging by what happened once you were alone in the office, yeah, I’d say he was about to kiss you.”

“You’re probably right,” I say. “Still. It feels shitty. What if I just screwed up the best job opportunity I’ve had in years?”

“It’s better than holding a dark secret inside,” Wynona murmurs. “It’ll eat you from the inside out, until you’re a shell of what you could’ve been.”

“Thanks, Eeyore,” Josie grumbles to her sister. “Although she has a point. It’s better that the truth about his phone is out there. If the man freaks over it, then that’s his problem. Anyway—you want to come over? I got this new cranberry pancake mix and even Wyn is crazy about it, and—”

“Wish I could,” I say. “But I told my mom I’d stop by this afternoon. She’s been pretty down since her latest break-up.”

“Oh, no worries.” Josie’s tone is sympathetic. “Joe was no good?”

“Nah, it was Lew, but yeah.”

“What is with your mother and men with three-letter names?” Wynona asks. “Joe, Dan, Lew, Jay, Cal.”

“Holy shit,” I say, realizing she’s right.

We all crack up at that.

“Maybe that’s her type?” I say. “Anyway, I really do have to go. Love you.”

After I hang up and head out for Mom’s, it occurs to me that I never told my friends the most pressing thing of all: I think I might actually like this guy.

Mom comes to the door with a half-finished hat she was knitting in hand, although that isn’t fooling anyone. I can see that her makeup is smudged, her smile tremulous.

I give her a big hug.

“How’s my working girl?” she asks.

“Good,” I say. “Still riding on Cloud 9 a bit that I even got this job at all.”

As we walk into the TV room to sit down, Mom turns off Dirty Dancing. I don’t mention how we both know that’s her breakup cry movie.

“It is good,” she continues hesitantly. “But after that contract is done, maybe it would be worth looking into…”

“Mom,” I cut her off. “Please.”

“Fine, fine.” Another smile.

“Enough about me,” I say. “How are you doing?”

“Oh, you know me.” A brave smile that doesn’t touch her eyes. “I’m… well, keeping on.”

“Screw Lew,” I tell her. “He was an idiot.”

This smile is only in her eyes; her mouth goes pained. “Maybe. But I was the one who chose him, honey.”

I lean over to give her another hug. “Everyone makes mistakes.”

She shakes her head, sinking onto the couch as she murmurs out the next words, half to herself: “I should know better by now. Men can’t be trusted. Your father certainly couldn’t be. They leave as soon as the going gets tough.”

Seeing my face, she quickly adds, “Sorry. I shouldn’t have brought your father up.”

“It’s fine,” I tell her.

Mainly because I don’t want to admit that this time I wasn’t thinking about my dad at all. I was thinking about Nolan, his face ice-cold as he strode out of the room.

And that call last night…

“Anyway, I don’t want you to make the same mistakes as me. I go from trusting men too much to not enough.” A low, bitter laugh. “You go make your own mistakes, honey. God knows you have a better head on your shoulders than I did at your age.”

“Stop, Mom,” I say, instead of what I really want to.

Part of me wants to blurt out what happened with Nolan, get it out: that I don’t have such a good head on my shoulders after all. That I might’ve majorly screwed up.

For some reason, Mom trusts implicitly that I know what I’m doing when it comes to men, but not at all when it comes to my career.

But I don’t want to dash her view of me, especially when she’s dealing with her own hurt. Yes, Mom has enough to handle right now—better not to upset her.

“Anyway,” she says, rising. “Enough moping. Want to help me make a nice bowl?”

I smile. This is half the reason I come. Not to cheer Mom up—I’m not so good at that—but to help her cheer herself up.

That’s the thing about Mom, she’ll mope like crazy when she’s alone—for days, weeks, even months, if left to her own devices—but as soon as there’s another person in the room, she’ll straighten herself up, put on a not-quite-genuine smile that still does the job, and get busy.

A few minutes later, as the wheel rolls and the bowl begins to form from the clay I’m shaping with my fingers, with Mom smiling softly to herself, she shoots a smile my way. “Thanks for this, Sierra.”