Page 11 of The Boyfriend Algorithm
“Are you eating enough? You look thin.”
“I’m eating.”
“Are you sleeping?”
“I’m sleeping.”
I’m not sleeping.
She launches into a monologue about the wedding—Natalie’s dress fitting went beautifully, the venue is gorgeous, the caterer is a friend of the groom’s mother, and did I know that her neighbor’s son—the dentist—is also attending? Because she just found out, and isn’t that a wonderful coincidence?
“Mom.”
“I’m not saying anything! I’m just saying he’ll be there. And he’s very—”
“Tall with great teeth. I know.” I wipe down the counter a little more aggressively than is necessary. “I’m fine, Mom. I don’t need a date.”
“I didn’t say you did, sweetheart. I just—” She stops. Looks at me with the softer version of herself, the one that makes my chest tight. “I just want you to be happy.”
“I know.”
“You work so hard, and you’re always here by yourself, and I worry.”
“I know, Mom.”
She pats my hand across the counter, and I let her because sometimes that’s what she needs. Then she reaches into her bag and pulls out one of the magazines—it’s a bridal thing, probably for Natalie—and says, “Oh, before I forget. I want to pop upstairs and check on the fiddle leaf fig. I gave it to you three months ago, and I know you’re not watering it.”
My blood goes cold.
“No!”
She blinks. “What?”
“I mean—you can’t. I’m, uh, I’m reorganizing up there. It’s a disaster. Total mess. Stuff everywhere.”
“Honey, I’ve seen your apartment. It’s always a mess.”
“This is a different kind of mess. A worse mess. An embarrassing mess. You really don’t want to go up there right now.”
She gives me the look. The Karen Hart look—lips slightly pursed, eyebrows slightly raised, head tilted at an angle that says, “I know you’re hiding something, and I’ve decided not to press it right now, but we will revisit this.”
“Fine,” she says. “But water the plant, Ruby. It’s a living thing. It depends on you.”
“I will water the plant.”
“Today.”
“Today.”
She kisses my cheek again, tells me to call Natalie about the rehearsal dinner seating chart, reminds me one more time about the dentist, and leaves. I stand behind the counter, gripping the edge until my knuckles ache, and wait until her car pulls away before I let out the breath I’ve been holding for the last four minutes.
I close the bakery at six. Jess leaves at five-thirty with a wave and another concerned look that I pretend not to see. I lock the front door, flip the sign, and stand in the quiet for exactly ten seconds before I head upstairs.
I open the apartment door.
And stop.
My apartment is spotless.
