P.S. To my keyboard which keeps autocorrecting “emotional turmoil” to “emotional tutorial”: you’re not wrong. This does feel like some sort of twisted learning experience.
P.P.S. Mrs Primrose, if you’re reading this: your “subtle” thumbs-down gesture when they rode off together was noted and appreciated. Your commitment to Team Eden is touching.
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MEETING MUM: A LESSON IN HEART EXPLOSIONS
Posted by Anonymous at 9:31 p.m.
March 31
So, remember how I said I was having an emotional crisis earlier? Yeah, that was NOTHING compared to what happened tonight.
Let me fill you in.
I’d spent approximately forever getting ready (yes, Megan, I tried on every outfit I own, what’s your point?), finally settling on a dress that made me feel pretty without looking like I was trying too hard. Though who was I kidding? The two hours I spent on my hair definitely screamed trying too hard.
Me
What if the blonde shows up?
Megan
What if you stop overthinking?
Me
I don’t understand the question.
Megan
Just go be your adorably neurotic self.
Me
I’m not adorable, I’m having a crisis.
Megan
Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.
Jake opened his door wearing another tight black T-shirt (how many of these does he own?!), showing off all that ink I desperately wanted to spend hours discovering. He was barefoot, looking devastatingly domestic, and something smelled amazing.
“Like what you see, darlin’?” The knowing smirk on his face told me I’d been staring.
“I’m appreciating the aesthetic,” I managed, like a complete dork.
His laugh was warm as he pulled me inside, his hand finding the small of my back like it belonged there. His apartment was . . . not what I expected. Neat. Ordered. Masculine. Photos on the walls, mostly bikes and what looked like family shots.
“That’s Mum,” he said, catching me looking at a photo of him with his arm around a laughing woman with the same eyes as his. “Before she got sick.”
The emotion in his voice was thick, and I liked that he felt it and didn’t hide it. I wanted to ask about her, about the treatments, and . . . about the blonde, but then he was leading me to his kitchen where an actual pot of sauce was bubbling away like he was auditioning for Hot Biker ChefTV.
“You actually cook,” I said, impressed.
When he told me he’d cook dinner, I’d pictured frozen lasagna or something involving a packet that says, “just add water.” But the chopping board covered in garlic skins, vegetable peels, and legit ingredients told me this wasn’t a man who relied on packet mixes.
