She sits back in her chair, eyebrows lifted. “He actually said the P-word?”
Pressing my lips together, I nod before taking another sip of really good coffee. My mom is killer at coffee. “Last night I slept with him for the second time.” Her jaw drops, and I see the light of hope in her eyes. I put my mug down a little too hard and wave my finger back and forth. “No, no, no! That’s the whole point. If I go there, then it’s confirming what he said, right?”
Her eyes narrow, the light of hope fading, and she leans back in her chair. “Dang. This guy is some kind of special asshole. He’s got it all fixed so even if he breaks his own rules, you can’t do anything about it or you prove him right.”
“Yee-up.” I pop my lips on the P. “I want to strangle him… When I’m not dreaming of having his babies.”
“Is he good in bed?”
My eyes press closed, and I nod my head. “I’ve slept with him twice, haven’t I?”
Reaching across the table, she clasps my hand in hers. “Baby, I wish I could save you, but you got that gene straight from me. They’re always irresistible. Your father was like that. He was a smart asshole, and the smart assholes are the worst.”
“You never told me Dad was an asshole!” My chest tightens, and I’m not sure if I’m glad to hear this or horrified.
My father died when I was a little girl, so I only remember him doting on me. He was my first Disney prince, my first tragic hero.
“Your dad was a gorgeous, red-headed Scot, and I loved him from the moment he spoke to me in that accent. That man made me wet… then I discovered he was a notorious playboy, and I nearly took his head off. Then he changed his ways.”
She says it all so fast, I don’t have time to freak out over the status of my mother’s underwear. Instead, I’m thinking about the last thing she said.
“What made him change his ways?”
“I showed him I’d walk away. He decided he’d rather hold onto me than continue his life as a tomcat.”
“You were a badass.” I sip my coffee.
“A witch.”
“I’m not sure if I’m as badass as you… I seem to keep giving in to him.”
“Don’t do it.”
Our eyes are locked when the screen door my mother insisted on having at the back of her luxurious Tudor mansion screeches and slams behind her best friend, Scout and J.R.’s grandmother, Alice.
“Lord have mercy, Regina. One of these days I’m just going to sit on that bottom step out there and holler until you come and get me.” Ms. Alice is a fussy old lady, but I’ve known her all my life. She’s also freakin hilarious.
“What’s the matter, Alice?” My mom goes over to give her friend a hug. “Rheumatism?”
“Old age-ism. Sly, is that you? My goodness, you look just like a young Ann-Margret.” She waddles over to give me a hug. “Elvis had a real thing for her. Almost didn’t marry Priscilla because of it. Everybody hated her for it, but she came out on top. Elvis was a big cheater, and she’s still kicking from what I understand. Mmm… Good coffee, Reggie.”
“What brings you around so early?” Ma returns to her seat at the table after handing her fussy friend a mug of coffee.
“Couldn’t sleep. I can’t sleep past five-thirty anymore—because I’m old.” She squints an eye at me. “Enjoy your youth while you can.”
My lips press together, and I love these old ladies. I’ve sat and listened to them gossip and fuss since I was big enough to drink coffee milk and be quiet.
Giving her a squeeze, my hand slides across thick fabric under her blouse. “Whoa, what’s under your shirt here? A back brace?”
“Oh!” Her whole face brightens and she rips up her blouse, exposing a flesh-colored bodysuit. “Got me some of those Skims. It’s like a stretchy girdle made out of this slick material. That little Indian girl with the good birthing hips sells ’em. How do I look?”
She does a little turn, and I hold my nose to keep from snorting. “You look amazing. But… Do you mean Kim Kardashian?”
“That little girl who looks like Cher, except… fuller.” She motions around her breasts and butt before taking a seat at the table. “If you ask me, Cher always looked like she needed to eat a whole pizza all by herself. I like that little girl’s shape. Womanly.”
“Why do you think she’s…” I don’t even try. “She’s actually Armenian.”
“Well, I don’t care what tribe she’s affiliated with. I believe in supporting women-owned businesses, minority-owned businesses—”