Made In Pluto by Eve West

Author:Eve West [West, Eve]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-01-20T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty

Mom wanted to take me out for lunch Saturday, and she’d asked me to invite Brooks. Like a lunatic, I actually did. I’d casually brought it up as, “My mom wants you to come to lunch Saturday,” followed by an eye roll and awkward laugh that was meant to make it seem as if I wouldn’t care if he declined. But he’d smiled easily, seeming pleased, and agreed immediately.

Mom was not close with Brooks’ parents. It isn’t like they were over every weekend for barbecues or anything. Birds of a feather and all. Mom was a single woman with one adult kid who wrote “love stories.” Meanwhile, the Denvers were balancing office jobs with raising a young child while helping their adult children navigate college and early careers. So, while she saw and even met Brooks over the years on a few occasions, she certainly doesn’t know him.

I probably should have warned him about wearing his uniform for life, because of course he shows up to lunch at Shoemaker’s—which caters to prim older ladies—in his jeans and T-shirt while my mom is in her pearls and Lily Pulitzer dress. She’s sitting—with perfect, rigid posture—as regally as a queen on a throne at a small round table set for three with water goblets and a white tablecloth. Her pale, bottle blonde hair is in a sleek ponytail, which makes her large, light blue eyes dominate her face even more so than usual. Her makeup is tasteful and minimal, except for the too-pink matte lipstick she’s painted on her slightly downturned mouth.

Brooks walks toward her confidently, nonplussed by his underdressed state. The only hint that he’s nervous is the way he licks his lips and briefly brushes his hands against the legs of his jeans as Mom stands to shake hands with him. I’m not sure whether to introduce them or not, so it’s pretty much awkward from the start.

“This is my mother, Marlene,” I say.

Brooks reaches for Mom’s hand, gives it a quick, firm shake, then puts his other hand over hers and says, “It’s nice to see you” instead of “It’s nice to meet you.” He follows it up with, “I see now that Jordan definitely got your eyes,” and my cheeks burn at the compliment.

Mom’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and her head snaps to me questioningly. No one, including my own mother, calls me Jordan. When I’d asked Brooks about it a few weeks back, he’d—of course—shrugged, and said, “Your nickname disarms people, guys especially, and makes you seem like a buddy.” When I’d argued that we were buddies, he hadn’t exactly confirmed it, saying instead, “I like calling you a name no one else uses.” But he’d never called me Jordan in front of anyone else, and I know, based on the red splotches on his neck, that he hadn’t meant to now.

I ignore Mom’s curious gaze, and the awkward scuffs and scrapes of chairs on worn wood floors is the only sound any of us makes as we officially begin this terrible idea.

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