“I’m not a snob,” he says stiffly.
“Of course not. Which is why you won’t mind riding in a Prius.”
He rolls his eyes and sighs, then climbs in with all the enthusiasm of someone forced to share an airlock with a bunch of Klingons who’ve eaten too many beans.
To be fair, Nate has been looking forward to taking his brand new car for a drive. And as far as I know, he’s never ridden anything that costs less than six figures.
Me? I’m more…down to earth. It’s a small price to pay for some semblance of a normal life.
The driver confirms our destination—Z, a club my brother Tony owns—and the car takes off. Well, “takes off” as much as it can in L.A. traffic. There are lies, damn lies and car commercials. Open roads and just you and your car, my ass. The reality is crawling along over-congested streets full of people, cars and busses. Count your blessings if they aren’t farting black smog that smells like the love child of an oil rig and a rotten egg.
My phone goes off again. The knot that’s been sitting in my gut for I don’t even know how long tightens some more.
“Got a vibrator in your pocket?” Nate says.
“I wish. At least that would come with some entertaining possibilities.”
“Shouldn’t you answer it? Whoever it is has been texting you all evening.”
“Eh. It’s nothing important.”
“How do you know?”
Sigh. He won’t let this go until I tell him everything. “Because it’s the nine million, ten thousand, six hundred and fifth text from Mom.” I should charge her a penny a text. It’d push me into a new tax bracket.
“Or maybe it’s Tony. And didn’t you say Edgar’s in town?”
Edgar’s the oldest of us three brothers. Tony’s the middle one, and I’m the youngest. “Tony doesn’t need me,” I say. “He has Ivy.” Whom he’s married to now, and so in love with I feel like I’m inhaling cotton candy every time I’m around the two of them.
But I pull out my phone to check anyway. Just in case Tony or Edgar needs me for anything.
Buuuut it’s from Mom. While I’m glancing at it, her nine million, ten thousand, six hundred and sixth text arrives. Why couldn’t it be one from God telling me I won the superpower lottery? Like the power to disable pointless texting.
Fed up, I shove the phone back into the pocket. “My mother. Told you.”
“Oh.” He grows silent.
Like the rest of the world, he knows about the scandal that blew up like a Molotov cocktail last year. The law says Mom didn’t do anything illegal, but it sure as hell doesn’t feel that way. A pit in the bottom of my gut burns. I swear there’s a lava pool inside me that wants to spew its rage.
She should’ve done something. And not just her. Me too.
Every time I think about it, part of me wonders if I was complicit. After all, I indulged her and catered to her whims. If I’d pushed just a little more…
“You know you could just block her,” Nate says finally.
“I’ve thought about it. But once in a while, she gets hospitalized and needs somebody to be there with her.” I’m almost certain she does it to get attention, but I can’t ignore a call from a hospital. So I go, like a well-trained puppy, because Dad certainly isn’t going to, and Tony and Edgar… Well, they’re too strong-willed and experienced to put up with her theatrics.
“Maybe it’s something important,” Nate says.
Yeah, important to her. “It’s not. You know what’s really messed up?”
He waits.
“Why do moms who hate texting in general stoop to doing exactly that to get their son’s attention?” I pause—dramatically—but I’m not expecting an answer from Nate. He’s too normal to know. “They text you things like… Hey, when are you getting married? When are you going to give me a grandkid or two? I met just the girl for you. When are you free? You know what I’m saying?”
“Uh, I guess?”
Why the hell is he turning that into a question? He’s my best friend. He’s supposed to just agree with me. “Yours does it.”