You’re an idiot.

You spend weeks planning. You make sure everything is perfect. Honestly, the hardest part is calling off your mother. First, she wanted to spend the holiday with you, completely missing the fact that, just this once, you’d like to be alone with Maura. Then, somehow, in a surprise twist, she, completely bewilderingly, figured it out. She figured out that you wanted this to be a date, a first date, a first romantic evening of two consenting adults only.

You have no idea how she figured it out, because it took you years and you were the one with the feelings and mind-numbing attraction to your best friend.

But she figured it, and, somehow, she was incredibly cool about it. It was great. But then, and you should have seen this coming, she got too cool about it: she announced, plain as day, that she wanted to come. She wanted to come on your date. She wanted to come on your first date. She wanted to come on your first date with Maura Isles, whose other first dates have probably included private yachts and midnight tours of the Louvre and other fancy shit you can’t even imagine. And your mother, hand to God, honestly wanted your first date story with Maura to be, “Jane took me to see the fireworks at 4th of July with a thousand other people. And her mother. And we did nothing but hold hands and plan our wedding and pregnancy schedule.”

That woman. It’s torture sometimes.

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