“That’s when you tell them to sling their hook.”
“And embarrass the kids for having shitty parents? Been there, suffered that,” I mutter under my breath.
“What?”
“I bet you were the kind of kid who was invited to all the parties.” Keeping my hands in the water, I twist to face him because I know that sounded like an insult.
“Can’t remember.” He gives a careless shrug, which is kind of the answer, anyway. If he doesn’t remember, he doesn’t have the scars.
“Take it from me,” I say, turning away again. “It’s no fun being one of the few kids in class not to receive an invitation.”
“Yeah, but that’s how kids build resilience. We can’t all be everything to everyone.”
“How about when you never get invited to birthday parties, not even those of your friends?” I spread my fingers wide under the suds as though it’d somehow release this residual discomfort. “Because your mom has a habit of turning up intoxicated and hits on the dads.”
“I’m sorry, Kennedy.” His voice is soft, and as I stare out of the window at Wilder, I see the reflection of Roman’s sympathy sketched in sharp lines.
“No need,” I say brightly. Brightly though slightly brittle. “We had Nana most of our lives, though she didn’t exactly help our invitation ratios, given she was an interesting town character.” Screw those people with stupid opinions.
“Interesting town character?” His tone is all tell me more, and maybe he’s just being kind, but I love to talk about Nana.
“She swore like a sailor and smoked like a chimney, even around me and Holland, which didn’t exactly endear her to the other parents in town. Basically, she lived her life not giving a damn what anyone thought. But she loved Holland and me, and we loved her just as much back.”
“She sounds pretty amazing.”
“She was.” I can almost smell the scent of White Shoulders and how she preferred the powder puff to what she called scent. She liked lime in her gin rickey and gave lipstick kisses. “And my mom was amazingly uninterested.”
Poor guy doesn’t seem to know what to say. Until he does.
“Will she be here for Wilder’s party?”
“Oh, Auntie Tina is never invited. But we try to make her welcome when she turns up from time to time.” Even if it is just to harass me, to cause a scene, knowing what it does to me. Knowing she’ll somehow get a little of what she wants. Which is always money. Not even Holland knows how much I’ve given her over the past few years. But I’m not thinking about that now. “She doesn’t know about his party, so the hot dads should be safe.”
“Hot dads?” he says with an intentionally comic preen. “You don’t mean plural.”
“I see someone hasn’t been paying attention on the school run.” The school run he’s pretty much taken over in the past two weeks. It’s been weird but helpful to have him around, and the latter is a point Annie keeps reminding me of since she’s benefited from the arrangement, too. She’s doubled her output since Roman has been bringing home both boys and is now supplying baked goods to a café in Bay Town. But those benefits can’t last forever, even if he does plan on staying in town. I try to ignore how that makes me feel, filling my head with realness instead. No more school runs for Roman because school is now out for the summer. Plus, he has to return to work sometime. Especially after hearing of his plans for Wilder’s party because they’re pretty spendy.
“Ah, so what I’m hearing is your mum is into plaid shirts, beards, and thongs.”
Pulling my hands from the sink, I flick water at him and his faux-shrewd look. “I don’t even know what to do with a sentence that includes the word mom and thongs.”
“I don’t know what to do with the accusation that I’d think of the words mum and undies in the same sentence,” he says with a chuckle. “Also, in the real world, as in Australia, thongs are things you wear on your feet, oh dirty minded one. They’re just flip-flops.”
“My mother is pretty indiscriminate,” I say lightly. “A man doesn’t have to be hot or a dad for her to be interested. Seems like a thick wallet is all it takes. Wives and kids, well, they just have to get out of the way.” Feeling a change of subject is in order, I grab the dishcloth and throw it at him. “Make yourself useful and dry these.”
“And here I thought my use was purely decorative.” The way he says this makes me feel like he caught me appreciating the heck out of him under that T-shirt. “So twenty kids, do you reckon?” he asks, grabbing a wet glass from the drainer.
“Twenty-five, maybe.” Leaving my hands in the sudsy bowl, I turn to him, feeling slightly uneasy. “How many did you cater for?”