I reach out a hand to her after she delivers the most perfunctory hug I’ve ever seen between a mother and daughter.
“I’m Atticus,” I say, and I don’t smile because… I don’t smile. I ain’t changin’ myself for her. I ain’t gonna be phony just because she’s Goldie’s mom. I wouldn’t expect Goldie to be fake to my parents about anything, either. Hell, she hasn't. She was more real with my Mom than she was with me initially.
“Mom,” Goldie says, her voice brimming with faux sunshine. “This is my boyfriend, Atticus.”
“Boyfriend,” Constance repeats, pulling her hands from mine like I burned her. Okay, that’s fuckin’ rude, but whatever. She blinks up at me a few times before not hiding the fact that she’s sizing me up. Her nose wrinkles as she glares at my boots, and I swear to god she winces away from me a little when her eyes get to the oil ingrained in the knees of my jeans. “And what do you do?” she asks, wiping her hand on her thigh.Wiping her fucking hand like I’m so filthy her skin has been marred by me.
This fuckin’ lady.
“He’s a mechanic at Wrench Kings.” Goldie’s smile is moderately terrifying. Wide and all teeth and her eyes–when she’s got that fuckin’ psycho jester smile, her eyes don’t budge. She looks like a crazy wax version of my beautiful girlfriend. “He trained the owner of the franchise, actually.”
Well damn. I didn’t know she knew that about me.
“I see,” she says with this air of judgment that really makes me want to laugh because, come on. How do people like this seriously believe their opinion matters? What does she tell herself that she’s done or accomplished that gives her even an ounce of goddamn right to judge me?
I pull her chair out and watch her take a seat, keeping her arms off the armrests until she’s snug at the table. I’m pretty sure she was afraid my dirty hands would rub against her white down coat and leave a mark.
Goldie’s smile remains unwavering, and I knock my knee to hers below the table. Her eyes flick to me for a moment, and I give her a subtle nod of assurance as her mom peruses the menu.
“What’s good here at the…” Constance closes the menu and looks suspiciously at the restaurant’s name. “Oakcreek Cafe,” she reads as if she has to admit her favorite TV show is Maury or that she shops at Walmart. This is one of the nicest places in Oakcreek, and yeah, I may be from here, but still, it’s nice.
And it don’t deserve the judgment of a person who thinks gaslighting their daughter into being with a rapist is a good idea. That’s for fuckin’ sure.
I bite my tongue and stare blankly at a menu I don’t need to look at. I know what I’m ordering. Same thing I get every time I come here.
“I’m getting the curry noodles,” Goldie beams as she announces her order like that’s a thing. Uh, normally I just order, and I don’t get all fuckin’ Red Bull meets beauty queen when I do it. I lean in, speaking low and private when I ask, “you ok?”
She smiles harder, and I recess back into my chair as she sips from her water, her leg still moving up and down with nerves.
Constance closes her menu and faces Goldie. “Did you not see the microgreens salad?” She inspects her watch. “It’s past noon. Noodles won’t be digested by bedtime.”
“I saw it, but–”
I know I’m supposed to be good. Play nice and all that. But I don’t fuckin’ like anything about this lady. The fact that she gave birth to Goldie has me controlling my anger, but because I love Goldie, I also ain’t gonna sit here and let her talk shit, either. Not to my girl.
“She likes curry noodles. She wants the curry noodles. If she wanted the microgreen salad, she’d have said she was gonna order the microgreen salad.”
“Well, she can eat all the noodles she wants. She’ll be the one facing the scale in the morning,” Constance says smugly as a waiter delivers water to our table.
“I don’t like radicchio,” Goldie argues, defending her choice to eat whatever she wants. I slice my hand through the air over her folded napkin.
“Don’t. Don’t justify why you want what you want. You’re hungry. You chose your food. That’s that.” I grip her throat the way we both like and seal my lips to hers. The kiss is broken short because she pulls away, her cheeks red, and takes a sip of water.
Okay, that… didn’t feel fuckin’ great, but again, I know Constance has a weird hold over her. I sip my water and let my focus move to the asshole in question.
“And what might you be ordering, Atlas?”
I snort. “Atticus. And I’m getting the Pickle Party.”
I shoot Goldie a wink, and she softens a little, but still, she’s off. I don’t like this version of Goldie, and not because there are parts of her I don’t like. I love all of Goldie, but this ain’t my Goldie. This is Constance’s Goldie, and she’s not even real.
“Pickle party,” Constance repeats. “I must see this.” She flicks open her menu and drags a mauve-painted nail down the lamination until she spots it. Her nose wrinkles, and her face sours. “Oh my.”
“What’s in it?” Goldie asks because she and I have never come here together. Not yet. But it’s what I always get. This place didn’t exist when Mere was alive, but she loved pickling things. Her affinity for baking and cooking bled to canning and jarring, and in that process, she learned how to make some amazing pickled onions, carrots, and… well, pickles.
“Pickled okra, pickled chimichurri, pickle chips, and sauerkraut on a meat patty,” Constance reads aloud. “I’m not a fan of pickled or preserved anything.”
I shrug. “My kid sister used to enjoy making pickled onions, and this burger reminds me of her,” I admit, and why the fuck am I wasting such a personal admission on Constance fuckin’ Berry? But when Goldie’s hand spreads over my thigh beneath the table, I know why; it’s for her. This whole lunch is for her. I just need to rise the fuck above.