Everyone has a favorite chore. You know, the one you always pick first over every other task that has to be done around the house. Mine is laundry. Something about the monotony of shaking out a fresh piece of clothing, still smelling of laundry detergent and cleanliness, folding it carefully and sorting it all into piles is almost soothing. That and the fact that I can do it while watching TV and still consider myself productive.
Unfortunately, once Isaac moved out, the vast majority of our laundry went with him, so my favorite, most cathartic chore is over way too quickly. One load of clothes to fold and a few towels does not take an entire episode of Riverdale.
Instead, I’m sitting on the couch, watching a very wrinkly Luke Perry reprimand his teenage Archie for being a dumb ass once again, while the few clothes I have are piled in nice neat stacks around me. If I was actually watching this on the CW, I’d put everything away during the next commercial break. But no. I prefer to binge watch, which means no breaks. It also means no ability to pull myself away once I get sucked in. This is how I ended up sitting in this exact spot for the last three hours. The episodes just keep going once you start.
Not that I want to turn it off at this point. This twisted version of the Archie comics is giving me a much-needed brain break before my long day tomorrow. When I set my schedule, I opted to take all five of my classes on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays so I could work the other days. I still think it was the right decision, and I know I’ll do it the same way next semester. But it makes for a lot of sitting and concentrating all in a row.
Plus, the added emotional stress of Isaac’s behavior and my decision to wait it out instead of trying to force the issue, still makes my brain spin. It’s hard letting your children go their own way. Especially when it’s impacting your relationship.
Yes, sometimes mindless television is welcome.
I watch as my former celebrity crush instructs his on-screen teenager, the latest celebrity heartthrob, to get into the truck on screen, still berating him for finding yet another dead body. Seriously? How does anyone survive in that town? They’re all a bunch of sociopaths. It’s fascinating.
A knock at the door brings me back to the present, and the pile of clean underwear some poor, unannounced visitor is about to be subjected to. Oh well. If it’s Jack, he’s seen my panties before. If it’s not Jack, I’m not letting them in the house anyway.
Another quick rap sounds just as I turn the knob and open the door partway.
“Isaac,” I breathe.
He’s standing on the stoop, looking abashed and barely able to make eye contact with me, but holding a giant bouquet of flowers. I think I recognize some version of small sunflowers and maybe stargazers, but I can’t be sure. I’m too busy looking at my prodigal son, grateful he’s finally come home. And yet, not quite sure how to handle the fact that he’s here.
“Hi, Ma. Can I come in?”
I realize I’m still standing in the doorway, blocking his entrance. “Oh!” I blurt, moving out of the way and pulling the door all the way open. “Of course you can. Why didn’t you just use your key?”
He twists his lips and crinkles his nose, like he’s embarrassed I would even ask. “I, uh . . . I didn’t know if he’d be here.”
“Ah.” I nod in understanding. I don’t bother telling him sex in the living room is not really my style. I’m not opposed to it. I just have had a child for a long time. When it comes to protecting little eyes from things they shouldn’t see, old habits die hard. Not that my habits ended up protecting anyone, obviously, since his eyes, that aren’t so little anymore, were still traumatized. “Are those for me?” I ask, gesturing to the bouquet.
He looks at them, like he forgot they were in his hand. “Uh, yeah. I don’t know what they are, but I thought you’d like the colors.”
“I do.” I take the flowers from him when he offers them. My fingers graze over the purples and creams. “They’re very pretty. Thank you.”
He nods and digs his hands in his pockets, but doesn’t make eye contact with me. I shift my stance to try and get him to look at me. “Isaac?” Finally, he glances up. “I’m glad you’re here.”
His shoulders relax, proof of just how hard it was for him to come over. I’m still not sure how this conversation is going to go, but what I do know is pride makes it really hard to say you’re sorry sometimes. Especially when you’re not totally sure what you’re sorry about. And I suspect Isaac isn’t positive which part I’m still upset about . . . the way he left, his two-week silence, or the fact that he hasn’t wanted to accept that I can have a life, too.
I stand in my spot, waiting for him to initiate the conversation. Obviously, he has something on his mind and I don’t want to make any assumptions on what it could be.
Finally, he speaks. “Can we talk?”
I smile at him and cup his cheek. “Of course we can.”
Without another word, we head to the couches. He sits on one, I sit on the other, still surrounded by clothing. Isaac looks from the clothes to the TV and back. “I guess you needed a brain break?”
He knows me so well.
“I did. Educational psychology is killing me slowly, and my biology vocabulary was starting to blur together.”
“Are you sorry you went back to college?”
His question is completely unexpected and throws me for a loop. “Not at all. I’m tired, and there are times my brain feels like mush. But I’m having the best time. I love learning and meeting people. And I can’t wait to be a teacher, you know?”
He nods and clasps his hands together, resting his elbows on his knees. I wait for more questions. I’m sure he has many. When he takes a deep breath, I know he’s finally ready.
“How did you meet him anyway?”
I know the happiness of the memory is written all over my face as I stroke some of the petals mindlessly. “We ran into each other. Literally. I was walking to class and he was, actually I don’t know where he was going. But neither of us were looking, and we crashed right there on the sidewalk.”
“And that was it? Love at first sight?”
“Oh no.” I shake my head. “We ran into each other a couple of times before he asked me to coffee. You need to know, I didn’t go because he was the Jack Pride, your coach. I went because he was nice. He was attractive. We just kind of clicked. So we went out again. And then again. And he called and we texted.” I shrug. “It was just dating.”
He snorts humorlessly. “Didn’t look like just dating to me,” he grumbles.
I raise an eyebrow at him. “Did you come over to fight with me or to make amends?”
He closes his eyes, and I can tell he’s trying to stay focused on the task at hand. But this is uncharted territory for him. For us. And I know he’s not quite sure what to do.
“Isaac,” I say gently, “I’ve never not dated. Not ever.” His head snaps up, and he gapes at me as I talk. “As a mom, my job has always been to protect you. That meant protecting you from my dating life as well. There was no sense in bringing someone around if I wasn’t sure the relationship was going anywhere. That would have been really hard on you . . . to attach and then separate. It wouldn’t have been healthy. But my mistake was not at least letting you understand that I was, in fact, dating. It probably wouldn’t feel so jarring if you had always known.”
“I always . . .” He rubs his thumb over his bottom lip, something he always does when he’s trying to find the right words. “I guess I thought it would always just be you and me.”
I love the fact that he may be a six-foot-something grown man, but in some ways, he’s still just a little boy. “Isaac, what did you think would happen when you found the woman of your dreams and got married? Would you move in here and have two women to take care of you?”
He snickers. “No. I guess the reality of my own life never connected with the reality of yours. Like, why would you be lonely? You have me. Without really thinking about the fact that I’m not here anymore.”
“And it’s always been you and me against the world.” He nods sadly at my statement. “Isaac, it’ll still be you and me. We have a unique bond, just by virtue of you growing up as an only child to a single mom. We have a stronger connection than many parent-child relationships out there. But that doesn’t mean either of us should or even wants to cut out love interests.”
He sits up and for the first time since he got here, he seems to relax. Really relax. Like he’s not uncomfortable being here anymore. Like it feels like home again.
“I had a nice long talk with Coach.” Those are not the words I was expecting, but I roll with it. “I asked him if he was just sleeping with you or if he really liked you.”
I want to be irritated with my son for discussing the significance of my relationship with Jack before I do. But instead, I’m nervous about the outcome. “And what did he say?” I ask quietly, hoping the answer isn’t a bad one.
“He said he hasn’t liked anyone as much as he likes you since his wife died.”
I can feel my cheeks stretch when I grin. Isaac rolling his eyes at my reaction confirms how wide my smile is. It feels good to know Jack likes me that much. I like him that much, too.
“Don’t read too much into it, Mom.” His face is turned up in a grimace as he thinks about me being in love. “It’s not like you’re marrying the guy. Wait”—his eyes snap over to mine—“you’re not marrying him right?”
I cover my mouth, trying to stifle a giggle but failing.
“It’s not funny,” Isaac complains. “I don’t wanna accidentally find out something like that by walking in on you during your honeymoon or something.”
I’m not even trying to not laugh at his ridiculousness now. “Oh my gosh, Isaac, I’m not getting married. And if I do, I’ll tell you long before it happens.”
“Uh huh,” he deadpans.
“I’m serious,” I protest. “I was planning to tell you we were dating, but I didn’t have a chance before you—” Isaac scowls before I even finish my sentence. “Well, you know. But it really wasn’t a secret. More like a missed opportunity.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it.” He smiles shyly at me and I smile back. All of a sudden, everything feels right again. “Anyway, Mom. I just want to say I’m sorry. For everything. I shouldn’t have disappeared like that. I was being an entitled little brat, and it was wrong of me.”
I reach over and clasp his hand. “It was. But you are so, so forgiven. I’ve missed you.”
He tugs on my hand and pulls me to the couch he’s on to hug me, causing me to squeal and drop the flowers on the floor. It still surprises me sometimes that my baby boy is big enough to manhandle me. “I’ve missed you, too. And I guess I should start calling before I come over.”
Pulling away, I pat him on the cheeks. “You don’t have to do that. You can use your key. I promise you, as long as you don’t barge into my bedroom, you will never catch me in a compromising position.”
“Yeah,” he says, obviously getting uncomfortable again. “You guys weren’t exactly quiet.” I gasp, mortified that not only did he see us, he heard us. And yet, I’m baffled as to why that wasn’t his first clue he shouldn’t come barreling in that day. “So I’ll make sure to have my earbuds in if his truck is in the driveway.”
I giggle and lean over to pick up the flowers. “Come on.” I pat his knee and stand up. “Help me put these clothes away, and we can watch a couple episodes of Riverdale before I hit the sack.”
“Isn’t that the Archie and Jughead show with all those nineties teen stars as the parents now? Why would I want to watch that crap?” he argues as he picks up some towels and heads toward the bathroom.
“Because it’s a good brain break.”
“If you say so,” he calls over his shoulder.
Despite his objections, he stays and watches for a while. And much to my delight and his mortification, he’s now hooked.