Sloane’s pulse jumped at the sight of her eyes twinkling with mischief. She imagined what she was like as a kid. Did she have the same expression when she dared a friend to climb to the top of a tree or jump o at the top of the swing?
Clearing the thoughts and the tightness in her chest, Sloane focused on the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. “Who the hell doesn’t like ricotta cheese?”
“The same person who doesn’t like cottage cheese or other white, lumpy substances,” she snapped back. “Is that the winner, then?”
Sloane gave in. She was too hungry to resist carbs. After failing to persuade her to eat too, Arwyn agreed to have some wine while keeping her company as they sat together at the small round table.
After the first bite, Sloane closed her eyes. Arwyn hadn’t been exaggerating. The lasagna, even though reheated, was delicious.
She was a quarter of the way through her demolition when Arwyn chuckled. “I’m going to have to tell my mom how much you enjoyed it. I don’t think me or my dad have ever attacked her lasagna so voraciously.”
A little embarrassed that she hadn’t taken a breath since having picked up the fork, Sloane leaned back and reached for her wine glass, wishing she’d grabbed the Pinot Grigio instead. It would have made the tomato sauce sing.
“I guess everybody always thinks their mom’s food is the best, right?” Arwyn’s dark eyes glistened as she held the
glass to her lips.
Sloane savored the dry, crisp wine as she watched Arwyn try to make conversation. It was unexpectedly endearing.
Maybe the fattening food was throwing Sloane o her game.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “My mom doesn’t cook.
Maybe if she’d been able to keep a nanny for more than a year—”
Sloane’s phone chirped from her purse, the familiar ringtone freezing the pleasant warmth that had settled over her. She ignored it, but before she could continue, it rang again.
“You’re ever so popular, aren’t you,” Arwyn joked.
Sloane’s reply was a knee-jerk confession. “It’s my mother.”
Her smile disappeared. “Do you want me to grab your phone?”
“No, she’s fine,” Sloane hesitated. “There’s a night nurse with her.”
Confusion marred Arwyn’s soft features. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“No one does,” she replied. No one that counts anymore, anyway.
“Please don’t feel obligated to say anymore,” she said, her eyes wide, warm puddles. “I don’t want to pry.”
Sloane took another long sip of wine before picking up her fork. As she ate, she told her about the surgery and the complications that left her mother paralyzed from the waist down. When that wasn’t so hard, she told her about having to give up New York when her mother insisted life wasn’t worth living if she was going to be alone.
“It’s just lucky I took both bar exams, I guess. I’ll admit, I didn’t really expect to practice here full-time,” Sloane explained, wishing that was the only unexpected part of her circumstances.
Arwyn’s hand slid o her empty glass and rested on the table. Her fingers twitched as if itching to reach out for her, but not daring. Sloane’s full stomach ached, but she resisted closing the small gap and taking her hand in hers.
“And you haven’t been able to talk to any of your friends about this? Being a caregiver isn’t easy,” she said, her eyes dimming like she knew from experience.
It wasn’t easy, but Sloane didn’t dare ask how A
rwyn knew that.
“Whelp.” Sloane drained the rest of her wine. “Turns out they weren’t too great of friends when shit got real.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” She inched forward before taking her hand o the table and tucking it between her crossed legs. “You must really love your mom to sacrifice the way you have. It must make her feel terrible that you gave up your shot.”
Sloane sco ed. It revealed more bitterness than she intended, but she couldn’t stop it. In a rush, the hot lava and ash erupted from her smoldering core. “It’s not love,” she confessed as heat rushed over her chest and engulfed her face. “I am grateful for the opportunities she gave me, but my entire life she belittled me and resented me and never showed me an ounce of kindness.”