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The clock stares back at her. Tick, tock. The cake rises under her watchful eyes. And somehow that thought leads her to what she is really worried about: her son.
Lovro, who grew up right in front of her eyes. He grew so much that now he has to bend down just to look at her. Lovro, who hasn’t texted her back since this morning.
She knows he is fine because she knows Lovro. Deep down, she knows he is probably hanging out with Jakov, or with Ivan, the boy she once stalked on Instagram like any reasonable mother would and decided looked like a good kid. Still, she can’t help but wonder if the puffy eyes Lovro had last week had anything to do with that boy.
A sigh escapes her lips as she realizes that walking in circles in front of the oven is what is actually driving her crazy, and the couch in the living room suddenly seems like the best option. She needs to let the cake be.
But she wonders if she will ever stop worrying about Lovro, because the moment she sits down, she finds herself worrying about the cake in the oven again. And the thought of Lovro hurting because of a boy sends a quiet pain through her chest.
All the pain Lovro must have been carrying all this time. All the effort he had clearly been making in silence to hide his truth.
She can’t help but hug herself, bracing at the thought of Lovro inviting Ema to their house only to prove something to her. She feels guilty that he even had to.
It is a strange feeling. For a moment the guilt is unbearable, but then his brain remembers that it is in the past now. Her son trusted her enough to tell her who was really in his heart.
Whispers interrupt her thoughts. The sound of keys, the front door closing. She can’t help but smile. The footsteps sound like Lovro’s. The other pair moves differently, unfamiliar against the carpet. Not Jakov. Not Mario or Filip.
“The one on the right at the end is my room,” she distantly hears Lovro whisper.
It’s a voice her son wouldn’t use with any of his friends. Soft, almost shy. Her Lovro is shy, but his deep voice has always been something that didn’t quite match his languidness ever since he hit puberty.
“Wait for me there,” he finishes.
She sits up straighter at that.
“Mum?”
“Can you come here for a second?” he asks, as if she weren’t already walking toward him, as if he needs the words to sound serious. He pauses, gathering courage, searching for the right words.
“I came with a friend. Please make us a cup of tea. I’ll explain later. Thank you.”
Ana nods as Lovro walks away from her.
A friend.
A storm of feelings dances inside her. Worry, excitement, curiosity. A friend could be anyone. However, that friend is definitely Ivan. She can still smell the faint trace of a perfume in the lobby, the kind only a teenager trying to impress someone would wear.
The oven makes a sound that she decides to ignore as she quickly fills the electric kettle with water, taking the teacups from the top drawer and the hibiscus tea from the lower one.
She will never stop worrying about Lovro, but she can make tea to ease whatever is happening right now. For a moment, she wonders if Ivan takes sugar with his tea, but something tells her she can’t just go and ask, not right now.
A voice in her mind reminds her: let the cake be.
She knocks twice on Lovro’s door before her son finally opens it.
And that’s when she sees him.
The kid she once saw on Instagram, sitting on Lovro’s bed, staring at the floor with his arms resting on his thighs. Something in his demeanor makes her worry for him. She wonders if they fought, even if Lovro’s earlier soft, unfamiliar voice didn’t sound like the voice of someone who had just argued with a friend.
“Thanks,” Lovro mouths to her, taking the teacups from her hands.
She can’t help but mouth back, “Is everything okay?”
Lovro nods, but then also shakes his head slightly, as if to say it isn’t. She understands the message and quietly walks back to the kitchen.
The cake is still waiting for her.
Ana decides to ignore the anguish creeping into her chest and focus on decorating the cake. She brings out all her tools: the piping bag, the piping tips, the cake scraper, everything that could make the birthday cake a little better for Lovro to eat tomorrow. If something was going wrong between him and Ivan, it might at least make him feel a little better.
She walks to Lovro’s room, curiosity doing its work. She stares at the closed door for a few minutes before deciding that the lack of whispering from inside is a sign that she shouldn’t bother them.
She takes her phone and writes a quick text.
Ana
Lovro, are you two having dinner? - 20:30
There’s no answer. Her message keeps staring back at her. The grey ticks seem to ask her to close WhatsApp. To relax.
She falls asleep on the sofa. And in her dreams, everything is okay.
So when she wakes up in the morning with an aching back and sore arms from hugging herself, she decides it will be a good day.
She looks back at her phone.
Lovro <3
hey ma, no, sorry we fell asleep - 3:21
She wonders if Ivan left. But if that were the case, Lovro would have woken her up and told her to sleep in her own bed.
Later, she glances at Lovro’s door again, cake in hand. This time she hears whispering, and the sound instantly brings a smile to her face.
She takes a deep breath. She’s the adult here. Two teenagers who are probably making out can’t possibly hurt her.
She finally opens the door.
She pretends not to notice how Lovro straightens up, shifting awkwardly on the bed and trying to look calm and collected. Her eyes travel to the boy next to her son who also shifts away from his previous position. She can’t quite stop the smile spreading across her face.
“Morning,” she greets them. Is Ivan wearing the t-shirt she washed yesterday?
“Moning. This is Ivan,” Lovro quickly says. No shyness in his voice and Ana can’t feel prouder. “This is my mum,” he finishes all in one breath.
“Hi,” she greets Ivan, searching for the boy’s eyes, the smile still lingering on her lips. Ivan looks tired and extremely boyish. Round cheeks, limbs that seem a little too long for him, folded awkwardly on Lovro’s narrow bed. He leans forward with his elbows on his knees, shoulders slightly hunched, like he’s trying to make himself smaller. The posture is painful to watch. They’ll have to work on that.
Still, he extends a hand and mutters a shy, “Morning.”
“Happy birthday, Lovro,” she tells her son, who looks at her with that shy expression she knows so well. That’s the Lovro she knows.
“Here, I came to show off a bit,” she adds, lifting the cake in her hands. “I gave myself permission to do what I do.”
That’s enough to make Lovro smile shyly.
There’s a moment of silence where she considers leaving, but Ivan looks at her and the question slips out before she can stop herself.
“Are you staying for cake?”
“Sure, great. I’ll stay.”
Her eyes drift to Lovro, who is looking at her with stars in his eyes, his hands squeezed awkwardly between his knees. It’s awkward, but she doesn’t even realize how much she needed her boy to look this at peace.
He looks at peace.
“It’ll be ready for you in the kitchen,” they smile at her, and when the door closes, she feels like she survived something. A wave of happiness floods her as she walks into the kitchen.
When they walk into the living room, she pretends not to notice that Lovro's mouth is bright red, even though she wants to laugh. He sits across from her with a plate of cake and smiles as he sneaks a couple of bites. Ivan follows him and sits quietly beside him, hands folded together in his lap, like he’s afraid to touch anything.
“Okay, boys, loosen up,” she says, giggling. “We’re baking in the evening and, if you’d like to join us, Ivan, we’ll have dinner out at a Turkish restaurant. He chose kebab this year.”
She notices she might have triggered something in Ivan, but he still plays it smooth and nods with a smile.
“It would be a pleasure, yes. If you don’t mind,” he says, looking at Lovro.
“Why would I mind my boyfriend joining my birthday dinner?” Lovro says, laughing, his eyes focused on the cake.
Boyfriend.
In that moment, she meets Ivan’s eyes and realizes he’s just as speechless as she is.
“Okay,” Ivan says, a smile spreading across his face, his cheeks turning pink.
“Perfect, I’ll call the restaurant and change the reservation to three,” she says, picking up her phone and pretending she doesn’t hear the teasing between them. Someone really should tell them their voices are far too deep to pretend no one can hear them.