Page 84 of I Hope This Finds You Well

I slump in my seat, trying to get low beneath the window. Useless. Cliff’s gaze tilts toward me. “You good?”

I nod. “Dandy. Hey, do you think you can maybe make another loop around the block—”

But she’s already at the window, crouching to peer into the car. She taps on the glass. “Jolene!” Mom calls. “Why you hiding from your mom?”

“This is your mom?” Cliff’s face splits into a grin.

“Yes. But—” Before I can stop him, Cliff is rolling down my window and waving.

Mom practically sticks her head inside of the car. “I come to take you shopping.” Then her eyes crawl to Cliff. “Who is this? He’s very handsome.”

“Mom, why didn’t you call?”

Cliff’s smile is too goofy, too wide. He reaches across me to extend his hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Cliff, Jolene’s... friend.” He looks toward me with a suddenly shy expression that flips my stomach.

“You too!” Mom suddenly exclaims, making Cliff startle. She looks down at me, and I can read her mind. I know exactly what she’s going to say. It happens in slow mo: “Armin doesn’t get jealous you drive home with such a good-looking man instead of him?”

Cliff’s temples flush, but then he pauses, looking straight ahead. He blinks and blinks as if registering the rest. If my heart wasn’t pounding like it wants to break free of my chest, if sweat wasn’t forming in all my creases, I’d be certain I was already dead.

I shake my head hard and look pointedly at my mom, hoping to convey “please shut up.”

Her eyes flash as they shift to Cliff, who is still stiff in his seat. “Oh no, is Cliff someone from work?” Then she lowers her voice, but not low enough. “Is it still a secret at work? He said he was a friend; I didn’t think work.”

I shake my head—where else would he be from? I mouth, “Mom. No.”

Cliff suddenly comes back to life, shifting aggressively to face forward and grab the steering wheel. “Sorry, I actually have to be off. Jolene, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I slide out of the car, and as soon as I push the door closed, he’s pulling away. As his car disappears, I turn to my mother. “You shouldn’t have done that! Cliff is the HR guy at my office, and now he knows.” My throat tightens like a vise. “That’s, like, really bad!”

She pats my hair. “It’s okay, he probably didn’t hear. And anyways, all of work will find out soon. You can’t keep a whole wedding secret.” Her hand taps my cheek. “Come, I’ll take you shopping! Cheer you up.”

Oh my lord. “I’m tired, Mom.”

“What? But I came all this way.” She huffs. And even though nobody asked her to, I’m well and truly screwed. Best not to resist my fate.

I make my way to the car, and that’s when I notice that my mom is the one going into the driver’s seat. She almost never drives herself anywhere. “Where’s Dad?” I ask cautiously.

Mom throws her hands up. “He’s being annoying—not taking me for all my errands. It takes a lot to make weddings go well, so I drove here myself. I’m trying to be moreindependent.” She says it with a capitalI.

“That’s great.” Then my heart skips a beat. “Wait, what wedding are you planning?”

She mock slaps the air as I enter the vehicle. “Weddings take a long time to plan, we need to start now. Come, we’ll get you nice things now that you’re going to be a bride.” Her eyes skim me over. “You didn’t wear those clothes to work? Jolene, those pants are not professional with the pockets there. And you need to wear earrings, so people know you’re serious.”

“I don’t think anybody has taken me more seriously due to what’s in my earlobes.”

She clucks her tongue. “You don’t know.” But she grabs my hand, a frown pulling between her brows. “Where is the ring? He’s not cheapskate, right?”

I pull back my hand. “We’re going to pick one together. When the time is right.”

Mom twists the key and the car chugs on. As she focuses on peeling the car away from the road, I text Cliff:

I’m sorry about that. It’s a long story, will explain tomorrow. Thanks for the ride.

I try not to freak out that an answer doesn’t come right away. Or fifteen minutes later. Or twenty.

We pull into the parking lot of Westbrook Mall, which is Not Great. It’s mostly a food court, two discount luggage stores, a Walmart, and a sprinkling of clothing places with names like “Delightful Fashionista,” all with “fashion” from the same general supplier.

When we approach a place called Sheer Girl Designs, Mom digs her fingers into my wrist. “Come, let’s go see Dorsa.” She drops her grip as she runs to greet a Persian lady with a violently floral blouse and poufed-out, red-dyed hair.