So We Can Glow - Stories - Leesa Cross-Smith Page 0,36

You’re far too pretty and interesting to have a bad boyfriend. Who needs that? Easier said than done, I know…but. If you do want to ever talk about it, you can talk to me,” Owen’s mom says and nods.

It makes you feel pathetic that Owen’s mom feels like she needs to offer to lend an ear. You wonder what Owen has told her about you. If Owen feels sorry for you. Is this pity? Does pity feel like someone putting a warm coat over your cold shoulders? But it feels like Owen’s mom is really seeing you. The summer afternoon light slants through the window, lighting his mom up like some kind of angel. Or superhero. You picture your thumpy heart, spilling out, not blood, but light, neverending beams of it.

“I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable. But, before I met Owen’s dad,” she says, motioning her head toward the backyard, “I dated my share of assholes and I know talking to another woman…helps. Men are extremely emotional, but they won’t admit it to themselves! They hold it in…then kill their entire families before killing themselves. It’s out of control. Why won’t they be honest with themselves instead of being such assholes? Men being honest with themselves and truly listening to women…it has the potential to change the world,” she says.

“They only act like assholes so much because they can get away with it,” you say.

“Well, men are gonna men. Fact. But it’s not a woman’s fault when a man behaves badly and it’s not her job to fix him. And if you catch one waving that asshole flag, trust yourself and run! Without feeling bad about it,” Owen’s mom says.

“From here on out I will. I’ll run,” you agree, nodding. Owen’s mom nods too.

And when you start to cry, Owen’s mom gets up from the table. You put your face in your hands and let go. You’ve been holding everything in and Owen’s mom makes you feel like you don’t have to. She starts rubbing the place where your neck ends, where your back begins, that place moms somehow know to rub when you’re crying or feeling sick. Her hand is warm and gentle. You take a shivery breath in. And out. In and out. In. And. Out.

“Oh, honey,” Owen’s mom says.

“I’m okay,” you say.

“You’re more than okay. You are just fine,” Owen’s mom says with hilly country comfort.

“Thank you for being so nice to me,” you say, looking at her as she steps away from you to sit back at the table. You’re embarrassed and hungry. You eat some more soup.

“Oh, please. Look. You’re allowed to have a weird day. A weird week. A weird life!” she says, her laugh floating out of her mouth and popping like a bubble.

The female spirit solidarity healing spell is broken as Owen and his brother come back into the kitchen bringing along the dog behind them and some more laughter—the pleasant laundry-and-shampoo scent of recently showered boys.

“Nice to meet you,” Malcolm says to you before heading toward the door. Malcolm is hulking. A Paul Bunyan in this summer kitchen.

“Where are you going?” his mom asks.

“Rugby. Park,” he says, grabbing an apple from the fruit basket on the counter.

“Love you,” his mom says.

“Love you, too,” Malcolm says back.

“Best chicken tortilla soup you’ve ever had in your life, right?” Owen asks you, sitting at the table.

“Yes,” you say.

You finish and thank Owen’s mom again before you and Owen leave to go get ice cream. Owen’s mom hugs you and you let her, although you’re not a big hugger. This is different. And you never get to see Owen’s dad up close, but you see him cutting the backyard grass in a blue ball cap. Owen’s fairytale backyard is edged with orange, yellow, and purple trumpet-flower bushes that attract butterflies. Seeing Owen’s dad up close is something you can look forward to. Coming over again, talking to his mom for some more free kitchen table therapy, maybe even more chicken tortilla soup. You don’t talk to your mom about your relationships and you rarely talk to your girlfriends about them because you are quiet and don’t like bothering people and you rarely even open your heart to those you feel most comfortable with. You wish you and your mom were closer. You wish your mom was more like Owen’s mom. You don’t even know Owen’s mom’s name, so you ask Owen before you get in your car. He tells you and you say it