Chapter 162

Chapter 162
Linnet's POV

Mom was quiet for a moment, and I could feel her chest rise and fall with a deep breath as she gathered her thoughts, sifting through years of memories to find the stories worth sharing, the moments that captured the essence of who they'd been together before tragedy had torn them apart.

"Our first real date was a disaster," she said finally, and I could hear the smile in her voice even before I tilted my head up to see it on her face, could hear the affection and amusement that time had softened into something bittersweet but no longer painful."

"David was so nervous that he spilled an entire glass of wine on himself at the restaurant—this nice Italian place he'd been saving up for weeks to afford, cutting back on everything else so he could take me somewhere special. The waiter was horrified, kept trying to help clean it up with these tiny cloth napkins that just spread the stain around, and David was so mortified that his face turned bright red and he wanted to just leave, to call the whole thing off and pretend it never happened. But I convinced him to stay, told him that anyone could have a perfect first date but only special people could laugh through the disasters."

"And did you? Laugh through it?" I asked, trying to imagine my mother young and carefree, going on dates and flirting and doing all the normal things young people did when they weren't weighed down by single parenthood and financial stress and the trauma of past abuse.

"We did," Mom confirmed, her fingers absently stroking through my hair in that soothing rhythm that was already making my eyelids heavy, that was pulling me toward sleep despite my desire to stay awake and hear every word, to collect these stories like precious treasures I could turn over in my mind later.

"We ended up having the best time despite—or maybe because of—the wine incident. David relaxed after that, stopped trying so hard to impress me and just let himself be real, let himself be the slightly awkward, incredibly sweet person he actually was rather than whoever he thought I wanted him to be. We talked for hours about everything and nothing—our childhoods, our dreams, our favorite books and movies and foods, all those little details that seem insignificant until you're sharing them with someone who actually cares, who wants to know every tiny thing about you. And when he finally walked me home that night, holding my hand like it was something precious he was afraid of breaking, I knew I was going to marry him someday. I knew it with this absolute certainty that I'd never felt about anything else in my life."

"Tell me more," I urged, wanting to fill the space in my mind that Cole's story had occupied with something better, something that proved love didn't have to be twisted and cruel and controlling, that proved there were still good men in the world who could love without hurting, who could be strong without being violent.

So Mom did. She told me about their first camping trip in the mountains outside the city, how David had been so excited to show her the stars away from the light pollution that he'd packed everything they might need—sleeping bags and a cooler full of food and bug spray and flashlights and a first aid kit—but had somehow forgotten to pack the tent poles in his enthusiasm.

They'd realized the mistake when they arrived at the campsite and unrolled the tent only to discover it was just a pile of fabric with no way to make it stand up, and David had been mortified all over again, convinced he'd ruined everything.

But instead of being upset, Mom had suggested they just sleep under the stars, and they'd ended up lying there wrapped in sleeping bags and each other's arms, watching the Milky Way stretch across the sky above them like a river of light, pointing out constellations and making up stories about them until they'd fallen asleep with their faces turned toward the heavens.

She told me about their first movie date, how they'd snuck candy into the theater in her purse because neither of them could afford the overpriced snacks at the concession stand, and David had been so worried about getting caught that he'd kept nervously glancing at the ushers until she'd had to kiss him just to make him relax and actually watch the film.

She told me about how David had taught himself to cook after they moved in together, determined to make sure she came home to hot meals after her long shifts at the diner rather than having to survive on takeout and frozen dinners the way she had before they met, the way she'd learned to live during those lean years when she was recovering from Cole and trying to build a life on her own.

"He used to call my mother for recipes," Mom said, her voice warm with affection and nostalgia, with the kind of fondness that came from remembering someone's quirks long after they were gone.

"Would spend hours on the phone with her learning how to make her lasagna or her chicken soup, taking notes like he was studying for a final exam, asking her to repeat measurements three times to make sure he got them exactly right. And then he'd practice on his days off, filling our tiny apartment with the smells of whatever dish he was attempting—garlic and tomatoes and herbs, or chicken stock simmering on the stove, or bread baking in that ancient oven that never heated evenly. I'd come home to find him covered in flour or tomato sauce, this big grin on his face like he'd accomplished something momentous, like he'd just won a Nobel Prize instead of just managing to make dinner without burning it."

Mom paused, and I could feel her smile even though my eyes were closed now, could sense it in the way her voice softened and her breathing slowed.