Because you never do. Another pause. Which means she's the thing you're actually calling about. He leaned back in his chair, looked at the ceiling, felt for a moment very much like the 22-year-old version of himself who had called this same woman from a dorm room in Philadelphia because he didn't know how to ask for the thing he needed. The interview got moved up, he said.
Two weeks. His mother was quiet for a moment. Then, are you ready? I don't know. Is she ready?
She thinks she is. She's got the folder and the tabs and the He stopped. She's organized. That's not what I'm asking. I know it's not.
His mother was quiet. He could hear her moving the soft sound of her sitting down somewhere. He knew she was in the living room. He knew she was probably wearing the blue cardigan she had owned for 20 years. Ethan, she said, how long have you been in love with this woman?
He opened his mouth, closed it. A while, he said. How long is a while? He almost laughed. The exact same question Isabel had asked him at this table 10 hours ago.
Since March, he said. Nadia's birthday. His mother made a sound, something soft and unsurprised. I knew at Thanksgiving, she said. I watched you watch her cut the pie and I thought, oh, that boy is gone.
Mom, I didn't say anything because you weren't ready. You're stubborn like your father. You need to get there yourself or you don't believe it. She paused. Are you there yet?
Yeah, he said. I think I'm there. Does she know? We talked this morning. And he was quiet for a moment.
And she's not pretending anymore either. His mother exhaled a long, warm, slightly relieved sound. Good, she said. That's good. Then quietly, she's good for you, baby.
She's good for Nadia. Whatever paperwork says, that part is real. I know. You better know. Because in 2 weeks you're going to walk into a government building and say so.