“I’m not sure I know what you’re getting at,” Hera says.
“I think it’s wonderful that you’ve been such a great role model for Rocco and I appreciate that coming out was much harder a mere decade ago, let alone thirty years ago. But how can you sit here basking in Rocco’s praise about you being so supportive when, all the while, you’re judging me?”
Damn. I didn’t mean to have a go at Hera. She hardly deserves it. In fact, apart from the clear judgment she’s been casting on me since the very first moment we met, I can so clearly tell she and Rocco are cut from the same good-natured cloth. But it’s perhaps that one glaring discrepancy in her personality that gets to me. Moreover, this is supposed to be a happy occasion. Us thanking her for a job well done, and celebrating another milestone in our journey toward our coffee shop dream. Yet Hera can’t help but ruin the moment with her snide little remarks. If she thinks she can just keep dropping them into conversation, and hope Rocco and I won’t notice, she has another thing coming. Granted, Rocco probably doesn’t notice, but I do. I’m too finely attuned to throwaway remarks like that venomous ‘at least’ that sprang from her lips.
I might be able to understand people’s reactions to what I do—we all live in the same world, governed by the same old conservative societal rules, after all—but that doesn’t mean I have to let everyone walk over me, least of all someone like Hera, who knows better than most what it feels like to have public opinion against you.
“Because one has nothing to do with the other,” Hera says, casually, as if it’s the most sense-making sentence ever spoken.
“Now, now, ladies,” Rocco says. “Look, lunch is coming. I understand we’re all a little hangry, what with all the hard work we’ve been doing. But salvation’s on the way.”
Our dishes are brought to the table and, as I glance at Hera, I can almost see the wave of relief that washes over her. If she thinks she’s off the hook, she is, however, sorely mistaken. But I’ll let her have a few bites of her lamb chops first.
“Delicious,” Rocco says. “How’s your salmon, Kat?”
“Good.” My tone’s clipped. Too clipped. I look at Hera, and how she hesitantly cuts off a chunk of lamb. I’m probably radiating combativeness. I need to defuse the situation. “I’m sorry, Hera,” I say. “I was feeling a little under attack and my claws came out. It’s a gut reaction.”
Hera waves her fork in the air. “You and I may not agree on certain things, but we have the boy to consider.” She nods at Rocco. “He’s lived such a charmed life, let’s not break the spell.”
“Oh, great,” Rocco says. “For the record, yes, I want you two to get along for my sake, but that doesn’t mean you have to gang up on me and spout half-truths about me to do so.”
“Make your choice already,” Hera says. “I’ve told you many times. You can’t have everything you want in life.” I realize I actually haven’t seen her smile yet, not the kind of genuine smile she draws her lips into right now. It lights up her face and transforms her into another person. Maybe that’s who she was before Sam died. Or maybe that’s the kind of person she is when she’s not having lunch with former escorts.
“Tell me honestly, though, Hera.” I put my cutlery down. “Would you really take on the job of remodeling my kitchen? Or were you just nodding your head to get rid of me?”
Hera inhales deeply. “Truth be told, I had no intention of actually taking on the job.” That’s all she says.
“Had?” I ask.
“I don’t think I deserve the way you just spoke to me, but, then again, I don’t think you deserve the way I’ve been speaking to you either. So let’s call a truce and see where we go.”
“That would be nice.” I pick up my knife and fork again.
“Hallelujah. Praise the lord,” Rocco says. “I’ve been thinking about your kitchen, Kat,” he continues. “Shall I run a few ideas by you?”
“Let’s see how the coffee shop looks first. Then we can talk again.”
“Oh, you’ll be dazzled, girl. It’ll be so pretty; you’ll want to spend every waking hour in the place.” He quirks up his eyebrows.
“I’m very excited for you two,” Hera says, “in case that wasn’t clear. And very honored to have been able to help build your dream.”
“Come in any time for that coffee on the house.” I look Hera in the eye while I remember the only half-decent conversation we’ve had—those five minutes we spent chatting in the garden chairs in the corner of the Pink Bean.
“I will.” This time, she aims her real smile at me, and something inside me shifts.