every move. I’m suddenly nervous, but I try to conceal my nerves.
“So who taught you how to cook? Your mom?”
I can’t help but snigger. “Are you kidding me? My mom wouldn’t know a spoon from a spatula. I learned early on how to fend for myself.”
“She sounds like she won’t be in the running for mother of the year anytime soon.”
“You got that right.”
“How old were you…?”
“When I got sick?” I fill in the blanks as I look up from peeling the garlic. Roman nods. “Twenty-one.”
His compassion shines as he shakes his head. “Life really is unfair. Sorry, Lola.”
I raise my shoulders. “It is what it is. I still get bitter, but then in some ways, I really have lived the most extraordinary life. Only now am I coming to realize that.” I not only surprise Roman with my confession but I also surprise myself.
He runs his fingers over his scruff, appearing to ponder what I just said.
“How about you?” I ask, turning around to reach for a knife from the wooden block.
“How about me what?” He’s evasive for a reason, but this time, I don’t let it slide.
“Did your mom do all the cooking?” The room drops to an arctic degree as I turn and watch him shift uncomfortably in his seat.
“She”—he clears his throat—“she used to.”
I slice the tomatoes, not pressing him to divulge anything he’s not comfortable sharing.
“Things changed. My parents divorced when I was fourteen. I bounced from home to home, but I lived with my dad mostly. My mom had depression, so it was easier if I stayed with him. It took the strain off her. My dad remarried, so I liked living with him anyway. My stepmom had four kids of her own. We were a big, happy family.”
“And you weren’t when your mom and dad were together?”
The room is still. The only sound is the knife slicing through ripened flesh.
“We were once, but things change.” He abruptly stands and makes his way over to the fridge.
I refocus my attention on the tomatoes, not wanting to smother him with questions.
The unmistakable sound of a beer bottle being opened alerts me to Roman’s actions. His mom had depression. Could her son suffer the same ailment? It explains what I saw in his office.
Lost in tomatoes and conspiracies, I don’t feel Roman until the hair at the back of my neck pricks in heightened awareness. He’s standing behind me, looking over my shoulder. The act is innocent enough, but I still feel my legs grow weak and my mouth parched.
“Is that why you don’t have any photographs around your home?”
Why my mouth filter malfunctioned at this certain point in time, I’ll never know, but now that it’s out there, I can’t take it back.
“Nothing slips past you.” My skin breaks out into tiny goose bumps, his breath warm against my neck. “I don’t have any photographs because all the memories I have are in here.” He places two fingers against my temple while I stop breathing. “And in here.” He then lowers his hand and places a fist over my heart.
His touch is between my breasts, but it isn’t at all sordid. It actually brings a tear to my eye.
“I don’t need a visual reminder of the good times I’ve shared because those memories will always remain with me. A photograph can never capture what your mind stows away or what your heart feels. Those moments are priceless, and I’ll never forget them.”
His words ring true because my memories of Georgia are far better than looking at her photographs and remembering who she was. My memories of her are a moving picture and allow me to remember who she is. In my head and heart, she’ll never be gone.
My chest rises and falls, a tear tracing down my cheek.
Roman splays out his fingers and lightly presses the heel of his hand against my thundering heart. “I’m sorry I made you cry.”
“You didn’t. My memories did.” There’s no need to explain.
Roman clears his throat before returning to his seat.
Once my hands stop shaking, I continue preparing dinner. I wonder if what just happened will be a memory my mind takes a photograph of.
Sitting at the small dinner table, I pick at my hardly touched meal while Roman devours every last morsel left in his bowl.
Over the course of an hour, that familiar nausea is beginning to rear its ugly head. I haven’t said anything to Roman because I’ll be damned if I let my sickness rain on