“Oops.” A self-deprecating chuckle comes next. “Well, isn’t that proof I’m always thinking of my son? But you’re so insistent on saying no that it makes me wonder.” She says it like a detective assembling clues. “Are you seeing someone and haven’t told me yet?”
Oh.
Wow.
Holy shit.
She’s offering me an out. And all I can think is—take it. Just fucking take it.
“As a matter of fact, I am seeing someone.”
When I say goodbye to Mom, I need to figure out who the hell that’s going to be.
2
Gavin
Tonight, I’m having a beer with my best friend at our favorite bar in Williamsburg.
“Now all I have to do is find someone to bring along to the engagement party,” I say, as I thank the bartender for the IPA then take a drink.
“How about your receptionist? She’s pretty fucking foxy,” Eddie offers, lifting his glass and knocking back some of his drink.
“The receptionist at Glass Slipper is foxy?” I ask. “She’s fifty-five years old.”
Eddie narrows his eyes. “And you don’t think fifty-five-year-old women are foxy? Don’t be ageist, Gav. Just because you’re twenty-nine doesn’t mean a fifty-five-year-old woman can’t be foxy.”
I hold up a hand. “Okay, I am one hundred percent not ageist, but I just had no idea you had a thing for her.”
He shoves a hand through his floppy hair. “Dude. I have a thing for every woman.”
I laugh as I knock back some beer. “Truth.”
Eddie is nondiscriminatory. It’s pretty simple to be Eddie.
He stretches his arm across the back of the barstool. “Don’t avoid the issue. We need to discuss the fact that you’re an ageist. Do I need to take you to sensitivity training? I expected better of you, man.”
I laugh. “Yes, please. Because it’s so insensitive not to consider Sally Jo as dating material on account of the fact that she has three grown kids. Also, she’s married.”
He snaps his fingers, frowning. “Damn. All the good ones are taken.” His expression lights up again. “Hey, how about that stripper? Angelina. Or Angelica. Or Angel. Why don’t you take her to the party and pretend she’s your date?”
I shoot him a look like he can’t be serious. “That was you who dated the lady-cop stripper. Not me. Don’t you remember your b-day?”
He drops his jaw. “Shit. I did date the stripper. And you know what? She was a sweetheart. A total doll.”
“Also, her name was Lisa.”
“Her real name was Lisa?”
“No, her stripper name was Lisa.”
He snaps his fingers. “Angel’s the woman who walked my friend’s ferret in Prospect Park. The stripper was Lisa. Sweet, leggy Lisa.”
I roll my eyes as I down more of the beer. “You dated her because she was a sweetheart? Is that what you want me to believe?”
He sighs happily as a tune by Astronaut Food floats through the neighborhood dive bar we frequent. “She was the kind of stripper you take home to Mom.”
“My mom is not as chill as your mom,” I say.
Eddie sets his beer on the counter, signals for another, then mimes rolling up his sleeves. I don’t think he owns a shirt with rollable sleeves; they’re all of the T-shirt variety. “Okay, let’s figure this out. Let’s get a date for the Gav-man after Denise dumped his ass.”
I shoot him a stare. “Gee. Thanks for reminding me of that.”
He claps my shoulder. “Hey, don’t be ashamed of being dumped. All the good guys have been dumped. I’ve been dumped. You’ve been dumped. It’s a rite of passage. I only mention the dumping because it’s going to make it that much sweeter when you find the woman you’re meant to be with.”
Eddie is a strange mix of crass and, well, romantic. He does believe in true love. He believes it’s coming for him, for me, for everyone.
The door to the bar opens, and in walks my co-worker and good friend, Savannah Waters. Her hair cascades down her neck to her shoulders, and her trim figure catches my eye. Eddie whips his head around and calls out to her, “Yo, Savannah. Come here.” Eddie pats the stool next to him.
She joins us, her dark-blonde hair framing her face. “I’m meeting Emerson and Jo in a few minutes, but what can I do for you two troublemakers?”
“Who says we’re making trouble?” I ask with an I’m so innocent smile.
She arches one eyebrow, and the look on her face is a little flirty. “Isn’t that what you do?” she asks. “You cook and stir it up like a couple of chefs.”
“We have a vat brewing in the back,” Eddie says.
“Just add a little sriracha.” She leans against the bar. “Some hot sauce and I’ll have it like soup.”
I hold up a hand. “I want this trouble soup, especially if it’s extra spicy.”
She gives me a droll look. “Always spicy. I always like it spicy. That’s my mantra.”