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She snorted. “I asked if it was his girlfriend,” she said primly. “He doesn’t have a wedding band on, but I know he was married.”
“And engaged. You know that too.”
“You’re just loving this, aren’t you?”
“Well, you have brought his name up a few times over the years.”
Marly hadn’t realized that. She should have.
Because like she’d said, her mother rarely forgot anything.
“Regardless,” she said, dragging out the word. “He explained who she was. Then the school called and he had to go get her.”
“I hope nothing serious.”
“He didn’t act that way. Said she’d had a stomachache that morning.”
“I’m sure he has a handle on it. I picture him the type who could handle anything thrown at him and somehow he’d turn it into a laugh for everyone else.”
She smiled softly. “He had that effortless charm.”
One she remembered so fondly even after they were no longer a couple.
The few times they’d be at the same party, when she’d been convinced to go to one in high school. How Colson would get in front of everyone and start a game of truth or dare. Then when it got out of hand, or potential arguments, he’d smooth it over and easily change the course to something else.
He was a born leader, yet rarely took a stand.
He didn’t like to be the bad guy.
He’d rather be the one who made someone smile. Laugh. Feel good about themselves.
Yet he’d admitted that marriage might not be for him.
“I’m not so sure the ladies like it long term,” her mother said. “At least from his history.”
A frown filled her face. “He joked about that. I’m sure it’s nothing more than a combination of his job and his personality.”
“Both are big things,” her mother said. “You know that firsthand.”
“Unfortunately, I do.”
Her mother shifted on the couch, turning so she was facing her fully now. Not the judge. Not the politician. Just her mother.
“Marly,” her mother said gently, “finding the right man is harder than winning an election.”
That earned a short laugh. “That’s saying something.”
“It’s true,” her mother went on. “The pool gets smaller the more you know yourself. The older you get, the more obstacles get thrown in the way. The more you refuse to bend. And you, my dear”—her mother’s wineglass tipped toward her—“have never bent for anyone.”
She stared into her nearly empty glass. The deep red caught the light and swirled around the globe in her hand. “I don’t want to bend. Why do I have to all the time?”
“You shouldn’t,” her mother said immediately. “If that is your decision. But that means fewer men will fit beside you. We know damn well you don’t want or need anyone to stand in front of you and you sure the heck don’t want someone behind you. You’ve always been about equal ground and that is hard to find.”
She swallowed. The truth of it stung like a slap to the face. “Every time I meet someone who seems promising, it takes about a month before they’re intimidated by my position, resentful of the commitment of time spent at my job, or quietly keeping score like it’s a competition.”
“Your father never kept score,” her mother said softly. “He was never intimidated, nor resentful. Neither is Zander.”
“No,” she agreed. “Dad was steady. Confident without being threatened. He never needed to prove he was the smartest person in the room. He never felt threatened he didn’t make as much as you or get the same amount of attention.”
