She emerges from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her once-bustling, no-nonsense demeanor is softened tonight, her eyes zeroing in on my distress. "Hey, come on in, sit. Everything's ready."
I slide onto a stool at the kitchen island, pulling a stray fortune cookie from the takeout bag. I twist it open, but my gaze is fixed on her. "I ... I can't figure anything out. It's like ... everything I thought I knew about him, it's broken."
Mom pours us both a mug of her special chamomile tea, laced with a hint of ginger. She slides one across to me, its warmth seeping into my cold hands. "About Mason, I presume?" she asks gently, her voice free of judgment.
I nod, swirling the tea, steam curling beneath my nose. "He ... he saved me from the Jacksons. Like he saved River Bend. But then there's everything else. The way he lies without blinking. The things people say about him. And I was so mad, Mom. Gave him the cold shoulder, ignored his calls, acted like a complete ass, honestly." A quiet, self-deprecating laugh slips out. "And now I feel stupid. Like I let myself get swayed by other people's fear instead of trusting what I saw right in front of me."
Mom leans against the counter, her expression thoughtful. "It's easy to see the world in black and white, honey. Especially when things get scary. And people, they love a simple story. A good guy, a bad guy. It makes the world feel safer, I suppose." She takes a sip of her tea, her gaze distant, as if remembering something. "But life, and people, they're rarely that simple. A person can be brave and flawed. They can make mistakesand still be capable of great kindness. They can be shrewd and protective. All at the same time."
I pick at a piece of General Tso's chicken, my brow furrowed. "But how do you reconcile it? How do you put the man who kissed you, and the man who's done awful things, and the man who saved River Bend all into the same person? It's like trying to jam puzzle pieces from three different boxes into one picture."
Mom's eyes hold a knowing glint, almost playful. "Ah, but that's the beauty of it. It's not about fitting them into separate boxes. It's about seeing the whole picture, even if it's messy. My grandmother, she used to say, 'The truest mirror reflects not the face, but the soul. And the soul, it holds many seasons.'"
I stare at her, a new look in my eyes, not confusion, but curiosity. "So ... he can be all of those things? The good, the bad, the..."
I twist my mug between my hands. "I keep thinking about Mason, Mom. He's done so much for me, but … sometimes I wonder if I even know him. What if he's another Daniel?"
My mother's eyes soften. "Daniel hurt you, honey. He took your ideas and made you feel invisible, all while smiling sweetly."
I nod, lips pressed tight. "He seemed so supportive at first, but it was all for show. I don't want to be fooled again."
Mom reaches across the table and gives my hand a squeeze. "I get why you're cautious. Daniel's kindness came with strings. But Mason? He doesn't hide who he is. You see the good and the flaws. That honesty, it's not a red flag. It's real."
She tilts her head, watching me closely. "Being vulnerable isn't the same as being naïve," she says. "You know that, right?"
I nod, swallowing hard.
"The complicated ones?" She smiles. "They're often the most honest. And the most interesting."
Then she taps my chin like I'm still ten years old and about to cry over a lost spelling bee.
"You're not mad at him anymore," she says gently. "You're mad at yourself. For not seeing it sooner. For not letting it be messy."
I let out a long breath, surprising ease settling over me. "Yeah," I admit, my voice soft. "Yeah, I think I am. I think maybe I owe him an apology."
Mom nods in affirmation. "Well, that's a start. Now eat your cold noodles. They're not going to get any less sticky."
I snort, a genuine, unburdened laugh escaping me for the first time in days. "Mom, you always manage to ruin a profound moment with a comment about food."
"It's my gift," she says with a dramatic bow of her head, her eyes twinkling. "Now tell me everything about this Jackson thing, young lady. And don't skimp on the details."
I lean back on the stool, pulling my legs up and wrapping my arms around my knees. "Okay, so picture this. I'm in full presentation mode, right? I've got my projector set up, my fiber optics ready to go, and I'm painting this gorgeous picture of their daughter's proposal under a canopy of stars. The Jacksons are sitting there like they're judging a dog show, all pursed lips and skeptical eyebrows."
Mom settles in with her tea, prepared for the full performance.
"So I flip the switch on my fog machine, my beautiful, temperamental, has-a-death-wish fog machine, and instead of giving me this dreamy, ethereal mist, it lets out this horrific gurgling noise. Think dying walrus, Mom. A dying walrus with indigestion."
"Oh no," Mom says, but she's fighting back a laugh.
"Oh yes. Then it starts smoking, not the good, atmospheric smoke, but the your-equipment-is-literally-burning kind. Mrs.Jackson's face goes from skeptical to horrified, and she's making these little disgusted sounds while waving her hand in front of her nose. Mr. Jackson is looking at me like I set his money on fire."
I grab a chopstick and use it to demonstrate, waving it dramatically. "And I'm standing there, feverishly clicking buttons, thinking this is it, this is how my business dies, death by fog machine in front of the two pickiest people in River Bend. I'm watching my reputation go up in smoke. Literally."
"And then?" Mom prompts, leaning forward.
"And then Mason appears. Like some corporate ninja. One minute I'm drowning, and the next he's there, all composed and collected, talking to the Jacksons like this was part of some master plan. He picks up my burnt wire, my evidence of complete failure, and somehow turns it into proof that we're thorough."
I shake my head, still amazed. "Mom, he convinced them that my fog machine exploding was a good thing. He made it sound like we deliberately broke it to show them how prepared we are for disasters. It was like watching someone turn water into wine, except instead of wine, it was turning my humiliation into a selling point."
