My Phony Valentine (Holidays With Hart)

He turns and pulls my grandmother’s afghan off the back of the couch, then spreads it over our legs.

In my head, I think of my mom’s directive to Raya, whenever she had Jeremy over in high school. No blanket sharing! Feet on the floor! Lights on at all times!

I’m disobeying all of these rules, which meant by morning I’ll be married.

“You don’t have to worry about me either,” I say.

She doesn’t look at me. “Someone has to.”

The words reach inside of me and squeeze. Is this what it’s like to not be alone?

Raya is almost always right.

Which means she’s sometimes wrong, I try to tell myself.