That’s odd. I talked to her this morning, and she seemed fine then. “Were you sick earlier? Everything okay?” I ask, concerned for her as I scan for street signs in my new neighborhood.
“No, just worried. About you.”
Ah. Got it. “Nothing to worry about anymore. I’m almost there. Only four-tenths of a mile to go.” And my bladder is counting every fraction of that mile.
“I know,” Mom says serenely.
I laugh. That is so her. It’s sweet but scary how well she knows me. “I’m sure you timed exactly how many rest stops I’d take, how many coffees I’d down, and how many dog walks I’d stop for, and you guesstimated my average speed,” I say as I slow to a stop at the intersection.
One more block. I can see my new street up ahead. Freedom is nigh!
“Two coffees, three dog bathroom breaks, and sixty-five to seventy miles per hour. Am I right?”
“Whoa. Did you put a chip in me?” I joke because that’s impressive.
I tap the gas one more time.
She laughs like that’s a loony thought. “Of course not. That’s just mother’s intuition,” she says as I turn onto my new block. “I knew you got in okay because I’ve been tracking your location on Waze.”
“Mom!” I shriek. That explains so much. “I told you not to stalk me anymore!”
“What? Everyone does it,” she says as I scan the block of cottages for number 583.
“Everyone doesnotdo it. Only helicopter moms do it.”
“That’s not true. Joanie tracks Mariana, Suzi tracks Taylor, and—”
“Helicopter moms,” I repeat as I hit the blinker, the cute metal numbers for 583 calling me home.
“Ellie, sweetheart. You shared your location with me on Waze. I saved it. So sue me.”
“I did that…years ago,” I sputter. I was home from college for the summer, and it was the only way she’d let me borrow her car to go out with that sexy, tatted guy I met at a club.
“And imagine how hard it was for me to track your whereabouts when you were in New York for the past five years, walking everywhere, never using Waze. Thank god I can do it again. You should be grateful,” she says, half teasing, half serious.
Wait. Make thatallserious.
“I’m twenty-six, Mom.” I pull into the driveway and cut the engine. “You can turn off the propellers.”
“Ooh,” she says brightly. “I see you officially reached your destination.”
Are you kidding me? I stab the end drive button on my app, then turn it off. “Mom, that’s me turning off the Waze.”
“Don’t turn off the sharing,” she chides.
“Mom,” I warn as I swing open the driver’s side door. In record time, I unbuckle Gigi and grab her from the back seat, focused on getting the key from the lockbox and beelining to the little girls’ room.
“Enough about me, though,” Mom says as I wrestle with the lockbox where Maddox left the key. “Have you heard the news?”
That’s not foreboding at all. “What news?”
“It’s aboutFabio’s List.”
I groan in frustration, forgetting completely about my need to pee.
As I start this new chapter of my life, the last thing I want is a reminder of all my romantic failures.
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