Page 7 of Mom Com

“Well! Isn’t that something,” she exclaims. “Do you know what you’re going to wear?”

I head for the stairs, coffee in hand. The anxiety I had efficiently buried about going to the benefit rises to the surface. “Nope.”

“Maybe we should go shopping,” she says, and I sigh. This is what gets her excited—me going to a party she approves of. Not that I’m surprised; she’s prided herself on her friendship with the Buenaventuras since forever. They’re the ultra-wealthy socialites she has been trying to reclaim her status among since she found herself tossed in with the commoners thirty years ago—the first and only time my mother ever broke the “rules.” And while she always loved my father and I never got the sense she regretted her decision to marry him, she didn’t hide the fact that she resented her parents for stripping her of her inheritance. She hasn’t talked to them since and likely never will.

I stop at the bottom of the stairs, turning to face her. “I’m sure I have something in my suitcase.”

“It’s black tie, Madeline,” she says more insistently, as though I just rode in on my horse and spit tobacco onto her clean floor.

“I know, Mom.” I refrain from telling her that I knew better than to show up here without formal clothes.

“And the Buenaventuras are my closest friends.” But what she really means is that their name is practically carved into the bedrock of this Massachusetts harbor town—and that she doesn’t want me to embarrass her.

Too effing late on that one.

“I’m going upstairs to do some work on my computer,” I say, cutting the conversation short.

She gives me a perfunctory nod and walks away. I stare after her for a long second, wishing one or both of us were better at this. I can’t help but wonder if things might have been easier if my mother had another child like she wanted. If my parents might have stopped trying to mold me into the perfect daughter, or if simply having someone else to talk to would have changed things when I inevitably let them down.

* * *

Liv trills her horn in my driveway and I grab my black peacoat from the closet, briefly assessing myself in the hall mirror and hoping my favorite red dress gives me the confidence I need to make it through this evening. “I’ll be back soon, Mom!” I holler.

Two seconds later my mother appears in the living room doorway (Eleanor does not yell from adjoining rooms like an uncouth bar patron, or so she’s told me many times). She gives my dress a once over. It’s floor length and has a slit up one thigh, but is otherwise pretty plain. What it lacks in frills, it makes up for in fit, hugging my body in all the right ways.

She raises an eyebrow, refraining from comment, which if I’ve learned anything from my seventeen years in this house, is approval sprinkled with a dash of disapproval just to stay on brand. “Have fun,” she says. “And tell the Buenaventuras I send my regards.” As she finishes her sentence, I realize that she’s not coming. I mean, I knew she wasn’t coming, but it hadn’t occurred to me until just now that it was unusual. I was so caught up in my own worries that I’d forgotten my mother’s status as the unofficial social chairwoman of Haverberry. And the only conclusion I can draw is that she isn’t going because my dad isn’t going, because they always did these things together.

“Mom...” I say, now feeling guilty about turning down her shopping offer.

“Be sure to thank Liv for the invitation,” she says, steamrolling the sentiment that is probably showing on my face. “The benefit has been sold out for weeks, you know.”

I sigh, aware that the divide between us is just too large. “I will.” I throw on my coat, giving her a quick smile before I slip out the door.

The air outside is frigid and I pull my wool collar tight around my neck.

Liv leans over the console and pushes open the car door for me. “Get in, beauty! We’re late,” she says as I slide into the heated passenger seat.

Her dark hair is pinned into an elegant French twist with an antique studded hair comb as an accent. And her dress, which is angled and high fashion, is midnight velvet blue. She’s breathtaking.

I glance at her car clock that reads 6:15 p.m., exactly what she told me in her text. “I thought you said—”

She cuts me off with a mischievous grin as she reverses out of my driveway so fast that I fear whiplash. “I did. We’re intentionally late. I figured we’d show up just before dinner, eat, and then hit the bar while everyone drones on? But apparently there’s been some mishap with the sound system and Mama Buenaventura is all revved up.” Liv says their last name with a touch of an accent, a nod to the Spanish and Italian her family speaks fluently.

“Oh,” I say, worry working its way onto my forehead. I haven’t seen her family in nearly ten years and unlike mine, they aren’t ones to hide their disapproval in puritanical silence. The thought of seeing them now with Mrs. Buenaventura in a bad mood, makes me wonder if I should jump out of this moving vehicle with a tuck and roll.

Liv grins at me as she races down the street at an ungodly speed. She drives like the bad boy of parental legend. And the nostalgia of her, the way she moves and speaks, hits me so hard that I momentarily feel fifteen again. I remember her first car—a sleek red BMW whose gas pedal she also abused. Liv wasn’t the handholding older sister who was determined to ease Wilder and me through our awkward phase by taking us under her wing, she was more of theyou learn from your mistakestype. But more often than not, she offered us a ride to school. And those days—parking in the front of the lot with the older kids, walking into school with Liv and her popular friends—I felt invincible.

“So,” she says without pause. “Are you dating anyone?”

“Uh,” I say, gripping the car door as she takes a sharp turn. “Not recently. I don’t tend to date in front of Spence. Plus, I haven’t had much time these days.”

“What’s it like?” she asks. “Having a nine-year-old at twenty-six... seven?”

I’ve been asked this question many times, and it’s usually less about the question and more about the subtext. But her approach is direct and there’s no judgment lingering in her tone.

“Twenty-seven,” I say, and decide to answer her honestly. “I’m not going to say it’s easy. I mean I worry more about him than I ever thought possible, and I often wonder if I’m getting it right. But Spence’s also the single brightest thing in my life. He’s my best friend and I swear I learn more from him than the other way around. The other day I told him the word he used was made up and he just shrugged and said: ‘Yeah, but all words are made up.’”

She smiles. “Kids are funnier than adults.”