Well Matched (Well Met #3)(40)
Caitlin nodded. “Because none of us were dating anyone. And the girl that Toby liked had turned him down. So we went as one big group that all stuck together, instead of coupling up, so Toby wouldn’t feel bad.”
“So you were each other’s dates but at the same time just friends, right?” I nodded while Caitlin did the same. “It was sort of like that. He had this family thing over the weekend that most people brought dates or spouses to, but since he didn’t have either of those things I went with him instead.” That was close enough. I didn’t need to tell her about the fake girlfriend part and I sure as hell wasn’t going to tell her about last night. “And I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings, having Emily stay with you.” I patted her ankles again. “I trust you. It’s just that . . . I’m your mom, and moms worry about stuff. You’re my favorite kid, you know?” That was a low blow, and I knew it. But it was an old joke, stemming from when she’d called me her “favorite mom” when she was about five. We were always each other’s favorites. She came first. Maybe I needed to remind myself every so often.
“Yeah. No, I get it.” She rolled her head on the arm of the sofa to look at the television. “I’m sorry too.” Her voice was almost impossible to hear, and maybe if I’d been a better disciplinarian I would have asked her to repeat herself, but the hell with it.
“Hey,” I said. “Emily told me you two went dress shopping. Can I see?”
“Oh. Yeah!” She swung her legs off my lap and bounced up from the couch. While she went to her room to change I propped my feet on the coffee table. A cup of coffee would be nice, but that involved moving, so I decided not to bother. This was not going to be a productive Sunday, but that was okay. As long as Cait and I had something clean to wear to work and school tomorrow, we could order a pizza for dinner and call it a day. If you couldn’t be lazy on a Sunday, when could you?
“What do you think?” Caitlin appeared in the doorway to the living room, and when I looked over at her my heart stopped.
“Oh, honey.” I sat up straight on the couch and pressed a hand to my mouth, tears flooding my vision. I wasn’t an emotional person, at least I hadn’t been for a couple decades. What was happening to me lately?
Caitlin shuffled her weight from one foot to the other, her expression dubious. “Is that a good ‘oh, honey’ or a bad ‘oh, honey’?”
My laugh was watery, and I ran my fingertips under my eyes as I stood up. “It’s a great ‘oh, honey.’?” As I walked over to my daughter, flashes of memory came into my head, unbidden: middle-of-the-night feedings, those first tentative steps, all those times I had to bend down to hold her tiny hand. Staying up late reading books together. Dance parties in the kitchen. All those little moments culminating in the young woman standing in front of me now. My little girl. Not so little anymore.
“I love it. Do you love it?”
She nodded, plucking at the full skirt. “I mean, I guess it’s silly to have a nice dress for graduation, since we have to wear that stupid gown over it. But Emily said—”
“No. I think it’s perfect.” And it was. She’d brought her cap and gown home the week before, pale yellow and made from flimsy polyester. What a terrible thing to put on a bunch of kids and then make them sit outside in the June heat. Who planned these things?
But Caitlin (and Emily, probably) had picked out the perfect dress to go underneath. Willow Creek High’s colors were green and yellow, and she wore a light green sundress with little white heeled sandals. With her hair pulled back from her face she looked innocent and all grown up at the same time. Far too young to be going off to college on her own, yet her own independent woman. I wasn’t sure how to handle it.
“It’s perfect,” I said again, and Caitlin smiled at the praise. Things were starting to feel normal between us again. I made a mental note to text Emily tonight and thank her for . . . whatever she’d done to thaw things between my daughter and me. “You should wear it Friday night too. Get at least one more wear out of it, since it’ll be hidden under the gown at graduation.”
She blinked, startled. “Friday night?”
“Yeah. Friday. The reception party thing at the high school? That’s the night before graduation, right?” A faint alarm bell rang in the back of my head. I’d written it down in my planner, but had I gotten the date wrong?
“Yeah. It’s on Friday night. I just . . .” She shrugged. “I didn’t think you were going.”
“What? What are you talking about, of course I’m going.”
“Oh.” She chewed on the inside of her cheek for a moment, then brightened. “Cool. No, that’s good! I just didn’t realize.”
That wasn’t it. I’d known Caitlin for every moment of her life, and I knew when her smile was hiding something. But I was tired and my brain was full, so I let myself be fooled and didn’t question it.
But I should have questioned it. If I had, maybe Friday night wouldn’t have bitten me in the ass the way it did.
* * *
? ? ?
“Um . . . Mom?”
“Yeah, honey?” Single moms were good at multitasking, so I could both answer my daughter and refresh my makeup at the same time. I’d left work an hour early, but Friday afternoon traffic had been a bitch, so I didn’t have a lot of time to get changed and ready for this reception thing. The details of this evening were sketchy, but maybe that was my fault for not volunteering for a single school event over the years. I was able to glean from Emily that it was set up as a faculty-parent mixer; a way for the parents to socialize with the teachers who’d guided their children through the past four years of high school, getting them prepared for the future. Some crap like that. Most parents had formed relationships with these teachers, I supposed, through volunteering, Friday night football games, and multiple parent-teacher conferences. As for me, well, Emily was going to be there, since she was a teacher’s wife. And Simon would be there, as said teacher. And Mitch, probably—we hadn’t talked since he’d dropped me off on Sunday, but it seemed like something he’d attend. So there. I would know three whole people.