“Caleb,” my mom’s intake of breath should slow me down, but it doesn’t.
“Where the hell did you even meet this guy?”
“At a hospital fundraiser back in July.”
“July? You’ve known this joker fortwo freaking monthsand you’re getting married?” I’m shouting now, pacing like a madman, but I can’t slow down.
“Caleb, I knew this would be a bit of a surprise, but Brian and I love each other. I see no reason to wait.”
“Uh, I see a reason to wait, Ma. How about you wait until you get the background check results back. Where’s this guy even from? How do you know he’s not some scammer, ready to swindle—”
“If you call me an old lady, I will hang up this phone, Caleb Aaron Whitman.”
“I’m not calling you old, Ma. I’m calling you kind, trusting, and gullible.”
“Caleb! I raised you by myself. I assure you I’m made of tough stuff. And to answer your question, Brian is most certainly not a scammer! He’s an anesthesiologist at Patton.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. “You think a medical degree keeps someone from being a slimy gold digger? Not fucking likely. What’s this guy’s last name? I’m gonna look him up.”
“Caleb, you will do no such thing. And you will not swear at me. I’m an hour away but seeing as I’m a grown adult with a license and a car, I can drive to your school and set you straight if I need to. Are we clear?”
“No,” I say petulantly. “No, we are not clear. Not if you’re intent on marrying this guy you just met. What the hell, Ma?”
She doesn’t scold me for swearing again.
She doesn’t say anything.
She hung up on me.
And I can’t blame her, but that doesn’t make me any less pissed. Leaving my phone on the counter so I don’t hurl it against the fireplace, I take the steps two at a time until I’m standing in our basement. It doesn’t look like a basement, though. It looks like a freaking showroom down here, thanks to Booker’s mom. But I’m not interested in leather couches or theater-style seating right now. I cross the room and open the French doors that lead to our home gym. Soon enough, my gloves are on, and I’m beating the hell out of the punching bag I hung in the corner. Booker does most of his workouts at the facilities on campus. And Ty and Knox prefer hitting the weights. But me? I need the space to go a little crazy.
Twenty minutes later, my body is exhausted, sweat pours off my face, but the frustration hasn’t dissipated. I strip my body of the gloves and my now-soaked t-shirt and shorts, and step into the shower down here, letting the hot spray try to ease some of the tension I feel.
It doesn’t work, so I do what will.
I haul my ass upstairs, throw on clean clothes, and take out nearly every ingredient in our fridge and pantry. While I’m filling the counters, I tap out a text to Booker.
Whit:Where the hell are you?
Booker:The rink. What’s up?
Whit:Round everybody up for dinner, no excuses.
Booker: Got it. You ok?
I hesitate, because I’m not ok, but I’m not as bad as I could be.
Whit: I will be when you bitches are sitting around this table eating my food like a goddamn family.
An hour later, while my pasta is drying, I pick up the phone and dial.
“I was an ass. I’m sorry.”
On the other end of the line, my mother sighs. “I’m—”
“No, don’t say it. Don’t apologize because I’m the asshole. And sorry for swearing, but there’s no other word for it.”
I hear her sniffle. Damn it. I made my mother cry. Again. “Ma, if you love him, I will too. I promise. And I’ll stand up at your wedding and be happy for you. And I won’t even grill him about the debt he likely accrued in med school.”
