The last time I was here, my life was in shambles. But the Blunt family home remains unchanged. Sunlight brightens the space from the large window at the end of the hall, keeping it warm enough that by the afternoon it’s easy to feel logy and ready for a snack or a nap. The smell is a little antiseptic but not enough to be sterile. Just clean, with a layer of her shampoo underneath. It’s quiet at this time of day but the floor creaks as I stop in front of a closed door.
Letting my bag slide off of my shoulder, I drop it on the floor.
I take off my glasses and rub them on my flannel shirt. Run a hand through my hair to try to tame it; Corrine told me to get a haircut but I forgot. Plus, I like it when she can pull my hair, anyway.
Blowing a breath through my lips, I knock.
“Come in.”
The crystal, antique doorknob sends rainbow fractals across the wall, until I snuff them out with my hand. The door opens with a creak and there she is—leaning against the window, silhouetted in that bright, white, winter afternoon sunlight. Her hair is down and her sweater is too large.
She smiles when I walk in, padding over on bare feet.
“Hi,” she says quietly. She wraps her arms around my waist, plastering herself against me. I hold her back. “I missed you.”
She arrived in Minnesota two days ago while I finished packing up the apartment I shared with Jeremy and moved my boxes and a few pieces of furniture into her place, in between work.
“Corrine,” her mom says. “Don’t hog him. Introduce us.”
Linda Blunt sits in an armchair next to the window. Her hair is short and a little patchy. She’s pale but her cheeks are pink. And she’s thin. But Corrine was right when she told me on the phone last night that she’s recovering.
Corrine steps away, pulling her hands into her sleeves. “Mom, this is Wesley. Wesley, this is my mom, Linda,” she says, ever formal.
We’ve spoken a few times over video chat when I’ve been at Corrine’s apartment. But this is it. Our first in-person meeting.
“Wes.” She opens her arms. “Come closer, you handsome boy. Let me see you. Chemo did a number on my eyesight.”
“Yeah. Mom started wearing glasses after her first round,” I say, walking over. Leaning down, I let Linda Blunt pull me into a hug. I’m just thankful I don’t have to shake her hands. My palms have never been so sweaty.
She squeezes, tight. The way moms do. I want to pull away after a moment, but Linda holds on, pulls me closer. She rubs my back, strokes my hair. She smells like vanilla, classic mom smell.
A sob surprises me, escaping through a shudder in my chest. I try to suppress it.
“Oh, Wes,” she says. “Oh, Wesley.”
I realize, as I’m comforted by my girlfriend’s mother, that I haven’t been hugged by a mom in a while. This is the first time, in a long time, a woman like my mother has wrapped her arms around me, held me, comforted me, despite being sick herself.
This is my first mom hug, since my mother’s last one.
I drop to my knees on the carpeted floor in front of her chair, so I don’t put too much of my weight on her body as another sob wracks me.
“Oh, Wes,” she soothes. Another set of hands rest against my lower back. Corrine’s don’t move, she just lets me know she’s there.
“I’m so glad,” I say between breaths. “You’re feeling better, Linda.”
She pets my head. “It’s Mom,” she whispers. “If you want.”
I nod into her shoulder. “I want.”
They both laugh, quietly. Corrine gets her laugh from her mother.
I need to bring Amy here. This is better than drugs.
Finally, I sit back. Wipe at the tears on my face with my sleeve. “Sorry,” I mumble.
“Don’t be.” Linda smiles.
I sit on the ottoman and Corrine perches on the edge, taking my hands in hers. I look down at her skin against my skin. There’s still a flutter in my stomach every time she touches me in public, in front of our friends, and family, at Sox games, Happy Hours, or our weekly date night at Amy and May’s. Her face is red and a little blotchy, but she probably doesn’t want me to mention that.
“So, Linda—Mom,” I correct. “How does it feel to be in remission?”
Her chest rises on a deep breath. She glances out the window. “Taking it one day at a time. And just enjoying the moment.”
Huddled on the ottoman, we talk about Linda’s treatment, her doctors and nurses, the trip she plans to take to Cape Hatteras with the whole family in the new year. We talk about Corrine’s job and how much she loves working for her old boss, Sarah Beck, and the softball team she joined. I tell her about Amy’s restaurant, her new girlfriend, Katie, a server there. We talk about Jeremy and how much I’ll miss living with him even if he’s kind of a slob. Our friendship has never been better, stronger, more open. But even if I’ll miss him, I can’t wait to live with Corrine. To be there when she gets home from a long day, to teach her new Beastie Boys lyrics in the shower, to pick up her migraine medication, and buy her groceries, and get her coffee on Saturday mornings, so she can sleep in before her long training run.
I can’t wait for her to beat me at Jeopardy and make sure I eat dinner and rub my back when it gets sore. I can’t wait for us to have our own little Happy Hour in our living room when she or I work too late. Or to take the T from her place to Fenway for a Sox game. I’m going to take care of her and she’s going to take care of me.
We don’t talk much about my mom, other than to compare notes on treatments and recoveries and hospital anecdotes. But I feel her here, in the sun warming my back through the window, the Beatles song playing faintly from the radio downstairs.
Corrine stands, pulling me up with her. She hasn’t let go of my hands since we sat down.
“You should get unpacked,” she says.
I nod. “Are you getting hungry, Linda? Sebastian requested my enchiladas.”
She rubs her stomach. “Very.”
Corrine holds my hand all the way to the door.
“Welcome to the family,” Linda says. “You sweet man.”
Corrine presses her lips together. “Mom,” she says quietly, a nervous flush on her neck and face. “It’s not like we’re engaged.”
On moving day, Amy slid our mom’s engagement ring into my hand. She said that if she ever got married, she’d rather a girl give her an engagement tiara. The box sits in the back of my sock drawer.
I turn to her, press a kiss to her forehead. “But maybe,” I say.
Reviews are an invaluable tool for spreading the word about great reads. Please consider leaving an honest review on your favorite retailer or review site.