Being the music man I am, I’ve assigned appropriate ring tones to all my close contacts. Booker’s, of course, is “Son of a Preacher Man,” though his dad isn’t technically a pastor. He just donates big bucks to the church. Ty’s is “Love in the Library,” and I know Knox is calling when I hear Lit start singing “My Own Worst Enemy”.
But right now, the lyrics to the classic “Mama Tried” are playing loud and clear, which means my mom is trying to get a hold of me. I grab the phone and answer. With all the shit I’ve put her through, she worries.
“Hey, Ma. What’s up?”
“Caleb, sweetie. I was hoping you’d answer. How was your first day?”
“So far so good,” I say, as I scan the pantry for olive oil. Why do my friends always move my shit?
“You like your classes?”
“To be fair, I only had two today, but yeah, they seem fine.”
“And how are the boys? Everyone settling in okay?”
And this is why Kristy Whitman is easily the World’s Best Mom. She cares about my friends like they’re her own kids. Which is nice, considering Knox’s mom is a she-devil, Ty’s mother is soulless, and Booker’s mom is basically brainwashed by her husband.
“Yeah, we’re all good. I’ll tell everybody you say hi.”
“Thanks, honey…”
There’s a pause that I’m not used to.
“Everything good, Ma?”
“What? Oh, yes. Everything’s fine. Better than fine, actually.”
“You score a killer sale at Nordstrom?” I tease. My mom’s a bargain shopper, even when she’s buying designer handbags.
“Even better. I, um...Well, do you remember the other week when I told you I was going out with friends for dinner?”
“Yeah?”
“Well, there was a group of us, but...we were split into couples. I’ve been seeing someone.”
The news hits me like an anvil, and I sit at the counter. Rationally, I know my dad’s been gone for almost exactly eighteen years. And rationally, I know that my mom is free to date.
But hearing the words throws me for a bit of a loop. Trying not to be a complete asshole, I clear my throat. “Yeah? That’s cool, Ma. That’s good.”
“I’m so glad you think so, sweetie. And you’re going to love Brian.”
Brian? Whoa. I was quasi-okay with this before date-guy had a name. But it’s cool. I can handle it.
“I’m sure I will, Ma. If you guys are still seeing each other over Thanksgiving, I’d love to meet him.” Damn, look at me being all magnanimous and shit, offering to meet this joker.
My mother laughs, and that’s a sound I’ll never tire of hearing. “You’ll definitely meet him at Thanksgiving, dear. That’s actually why I’m calling.”
“You don’t need my permission to invite your...boyfriend to Thanksgiving, Ma.” I nearly choke on the b-word, but the sentiment is true.
Again, she laughs. “I should hope not, Caleb. Because by then, Brian and I will be married. Well, maybe not Thursday. More likely Friday or Saturday. We’re still finalizing plans.”
My mom’s rattling on, but I’m stuck in the mud of the wordmarried.
“Uh, come again?” I ask, thanking Christ I found a seat before my ass dropped to the floor right next to my jaw.
“We’re still finalizing the details with the resort. I’d like to do Friday, but Saturday may be best. And this way, we’ll all be together for Thanksgiving, and we’ll have a mini-vacation.”
“You can’t marry him,” I say, my voice sterner than is probably necessary.
