“Fun to ride but not worth the trouble,” she adds, giving me a squeeze.

“We’re quite the pair, you and me,” I say as she walks inside with me, and I help her up the last few steps.

“Didn’t bring my cane,” she mutters as we approach the elevator—a small one, rather dinky and dark, but it gets the job done. It’s on the basement level, so I push the button for it to come up. The doors slide open.

“You should just get the knee replacement,” I tell her, taking her elbow. “You know I’ll help you with the recovery.”

She waves me off as she puts her foot at the door to keep it from shutting. “Sushi tomorrow night?”

I bob my head. “It’s on. Spider roll and fried wontons. Your place.”

She points a finger at the door off the foyer on the first floor. “Let’s invite the new resident. His name is”—she leans in to whisper—“John Wilcox. Moved in today. Handsome fellow in his fifties.”

I see that glint in her eyes. She’s already tried setting me up with the grocer, the baker, and the boy who throws the Sunday paper. None worked out.

“He’s all yours. Please.”

She mulls it over. “He has a cat. I’m allergic.”

“Take a Benadryl.”

She taps her chin. “Sushi night is historically girls’ night.”

“Rules are made to be broken!” I toss in.

She sends me a droll smirk. “Live what you preach, Giselle.”

“Ask him. Tomorrow night is going to be lit,” I chirp, waving good night as she pushes the button for the second floor, letting the door slide shut. I take the stairwell up to my place on the third level.

I don’t have any whiskey, but I’m midsip on a glass of wine when Mama calls back around nine.

“Mama!” I say brightly. “Missed you earlier, but I had to get situated.”

“Was he employed?” No hello, how are you.

“He was a rodeo star, belt buckle and all.” Then: “I thought I’d at least have until tomorrow before Topher told you about my date.” Topher and Mama had some unsure moments when he lived with my sister—not right to cohabitate with a man, she insisted—but now that Elena’s married to Jack, Mama is satisfied and treats Topher like one of her own. Not sure that’s a good thing.

“Topher can’t keep a secret. If he wasn’t gay, I’d tell you to marry him. He came by for some Sun Drops at the Cut ’N’ Curl while I was doing some late-night cleaning.”

“He’s in trouble for running straight to you.” I shall plot my revenge.

We chitchat for the next few minutes, until she drops her bomb. “Your birthday is Sunday. I get home from church at noon, so be here by one, dear.”

I set down my glass and lean in, gripping the phone. Something about her voice . . . “I don’t want anything fancy, Mama. Just you and me and Aunt Clara and Topher.” I pick at the threads on my blue couch. “Elena and Jack won’t be back. Maybe we should wait—”

“We will celebrate on the actual day.”

I groan at the determination in her voice. She’s a bulldog. “Mama, let’s wait.”

There’s a beat of silence, and I picture her in her stately brick house in Daisy. She’s probably already wearing her blue nightgown, the one that goes all the way to her feet with lace at the hem. She’s curled up in her recliner watching Dateline, hair perfectly coiffed, nails tapping a copy of People magazine in her lap. A warm cup of peppermint tea sits next to her.

“Mama?”

“I don’t like the ghosts in your eyes, dear. Preston . . .”

Sick of his name and annoyed, I hold the phone at arm’s length for the next ten seconds. Sometimes I think she was more devastated than I was when we broke up. She’d been hesitant at first since he’d previously dated Elena, but he’s a lawyer, lives in Daisy, and has money. He checked all her boxes, and she couldn’t resist him. She planned our wedding, made an album with her favorite color scheme (pink and more pink), and selected flowers, venue, musicians . . .

I bring the phone back.

“Didn’t you used to have a crush on him?”

“Who?”

“Aren’t you listening? Mike Millington, the new principal at Daisy High. Recently divorced. He married some girl he met at Tulane. She ran around on him, and there’s a child, but she’s adorable. Only three years old—plenty of time for you to ease your way in and be a good role model—”

“I did not have a crush.” Four years older than me, he lived next door to us until he left for college. I totally wrote our names in my notebook and drew little hearts around them. When I was thirteen.

“He handcuffed me to a tree once,” I throw out.

“They were plastic handcuffs. Don’t embellish.”

I leave the memories behind as realization dawns. “Mama! You invited him to my birthday lunch? Why?”

“Dear, be nice. His dad passed, and his mom just a few months later. He’s moved back to Daisy and is living in their house. He’s starting over, dear, and I’m just being neighborly. Don’t worry about details. Let me take care of it all.”

I get that she thinks I’m unhappy, but no, I pick my own bad dates.

“I haven’t seen him in ten years,” I sputter, standing so I can pace around the living room. “I don’t want to stuff food in my face while he sits across from me. It’s my birthday—”

“I’ll put him next to you.”

I groan. “Why?”

There’s a long silence, just the sound of her breathing, and when her voice comes, it’s subdued, a tinge of hurt echoing in the tones. “It’s a bittersweet day, dear, but you deserve a party. I want some happiness for you.”

My eyes shut. While I was under the bleachers at the high school, mostly naked and getting videoed, my dad wrecked his car, went into a coma, and never came back. It was my sixteenth birthday. I’ve refused a party ever since, and the curse was born.

And the coldness.

My chest exhales. “We should just do it like we always do. Low key.”

I hear the tinkle of a teacup as she sets it back on the saucer. “I can’t take back the invitation. It’s rude. Any good hostess knows this. Once everyone gets here, you’ll be glad. I know you better than you think.”

I pinch my nose. “Once everyone . . .” What is she planning? “Did you invite my preschool boyfriend too?”

“What’s his name?”

“Jude—whatever, Mama, you can’t fill the house with prospective husbands! I don’t need a man. I have my work.” This is the direct opposite of my thoughts lately, but I can hardly tell her about my quest, which has nothing to do with love. Feelings don’t have to be involved at all. Just the act itself.

I glare at the wall, fingering my necklace. “If we’re doing this, I want alcohol.”

“It’s the Lord’s day.”

“Champagne. Jesus would understand.”

She pauses. “Okay.”

I stare at the phone, as if expecting to see her come through the phone with two heads. She’s . . . compromising?