“He’s just a little messed-up, I reckon.” I turn towards him, standing on the stairs. “But he’ll do.”
I smile, grateful for my son’s optimism. I don’t know where I’d be without him.
“He had to go – a family lunch…”
“And you wanted…”
“Don’t be stupid,” I shake my head, pushing away the thought. “Why should he have?”
“Because you slept together?”
“There are some things I shouldn’t speak to my teenage son about. It makes me feel like a terrible mum.”
“It’s not your fault, I’m just too switched-on for you.”
I look at him, one eyebrow raised.
“He likes you, Mum. I already told you.”
“That’s probably true, but I obviously like him a lot more, or he’d have invited me to come with him.”
Am I seriously asking my son for relationship advice?
“I don’t know, meeting the parents and all…”
“But I’ve already met them.”
“But not since he realised he likes you.”
“Oh, that’s enough,” I say, heading upstairs and passing him as I go. I decide to lock myself in my room all day; that way, I can sit and remember every single second of last night – I’m sure there won’t be any more like it, and it’s not something I want to forget anytime soon.
