“Mom, there’s something else I have to tell you” I admit. “The whole reason I’m here, the reason I realized I needed to talk about this, is because I metsomeone.”
“Met someone?” she repeats, tilting her head to theside.
“A girl,” I clarify, “that Ilike.”
“Well Aaron,” she says, swatting me on the arm, “that’swonderful!”
“Yeah.” I break out into a tentative smile as the mood lightens a bit. “She is. Only isn’t it kind of...insulting, to Tiff’s memory, for me to want to be with someone else? It’s only been ayear.”
She gives me a stern stare. “Aaron, this isn’t the Victorian era. You’re not expected to dress in black and avoid joy like it’s the plague. If Tiffany werehere—”
“Don’t!” I snap, shifting away from her touch. “Don’t say that. I hate when people say that. If she were here, if she could have what she ‘would have wanted,’ we wouldn’t be having this conversation atall.”
She looks hurt at the force in my tone and I instantly regretit.
“Sorry.” I force the word out. “I just hate that somuch.”
“You’re right,” she replies, shaking her head. “It’s a stupid thing to say. I’m sorry. I guess what I mean is...you can’t go along acting as if your entire future died with Tiffany. You have to realize that your happiness matters, Aaron. Tiffany always wanted the best for you. She was always pushing you to go after the things you dreamed about. Continuing to do that now that she’s gone doesn’t insult her memory; it honorsit.”
I sit completely still for a moment, feeling her words sink into me, ringing out with truth as I repeat them in my head. She’s right. I know she’s right. I nod my head and take her hand in mine, squeezing hard before I letgo.
“So,” I say, clearing my throat to get rid of the lump that’s sitting there, “did they teach you that at grief counselling? After you held hands and sang ‘Kumbaya’?”
I look at her and see the smirk on my face mirrored in hers. We may not share the same eyes, but I learned the art of sarcasm straight fromher.
“It was lesson five,” she says. “And we sang ‘Lean On Me’ not ‘Kumbayah.’”
“God, if it actually involves singing I’m walking out thedoor.”
She pulls my beanie off my head and tosses it across theroom.
“Hey!” I shout inprotest.
“You know I hate those things,” she teases, getting up from the couch. “Plus, dinner is almost ready and you also know I don’t allow hats at thetable.”
I leave my beanie where it is and follow her into the kitchen, getting the table set up as she checks on the casserole in the oven. My dad will be home from work soon, and I make sure to set out wine glasses for us all, knowing he likes to make dramatic toasts to the ‘return of his prodigal children’ whenever me or my sister comeshome.
Sarcasm kind of runs in the wholefamily.
“So tell me about the girl,” my mom demands, as she pulls on a pair of oven mitts. “Is she fromschool?”
“Yeah, we worked on a project together for this showcase thing and it did really well. She used to hate me. I mean, I kind ofmadeher hateme.”
I already told my mom about what a douche I let myself turn into. I give her a quick recap of the showcase project and modelling ordeal. She knew I started keeping my photography as secret after Tiff passed away, and I can tell she’s surprised to hear I let Christina in onit.
“We got really close,” I conclude, “but the closer we got the more nervous I became, until I fucked the whole thingup.”
“Language!” chides mymom.
“Messed up,” I correct. “I messed it up. I should have told her about Tiff before I told her how much I liked her, but I didn’t and then she found all these photos of Tiff and I just...I couldn’t talk about it, not on the spot like that, after hiding it from everyone for so long. She assumed Tiff was just some ex I wasn’t over. She doesn’t want to talk to meanymore.”
“Did you tell her the truthyet?”
“I’ve called a few times, but that’s not really something you bring up in a phonemessage.”
“No,” Mom agrees, “I guess it’snot.”
She sets the casserole dish down on the counter and my mouth waters. I can make about five very basic meals; the only I get to eat decent home-cooked food anymore is when I’mhere.
“So what do I do?” I ask. “She clearly doesn’t want to talk, and I don’t even know what to say. I don’t know what words will convince her to at least let me tell her thetruth.”
“Maybe words aren’t your bestoption.”
She gives me a mysterious smile and carries the casserole out to thetable.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Idemand.
“There’s something you’re better at, something that’s worth athousandwords.” She winks at me and I catchon.
Pictures. I can say way more with a photo than I can withwords.
