And with that, she turns and heads back into the restaurant, where she presumably pays for the entire dinner I ruined.
I’m about to stand watch outside the restaurant, if not just to make sure she gets home safely when my phone rings.
My plan is to ignore the call until I see it’s my Mom.
“What’s up, Mom?” I answer, sliding into my truck, trying not to sound as annoyed and irritable as I feel.
“Hi, son. How are you?” she takes her time with the conversation, despite the fact I answered with the plan to rush her to the point. I take a deep breath, remembering this is my Mom, and she has nothing to do with the shit I just put myself in.
“I’m good,” I answer more calmly than I feel. “How are you guys? What’d you two need?”
“Can’t I just call to talk to my son? Do Ihave toneed something?”
I scratch at the side of my head as I stare out my windshield at the restaurant. “No, you don’t,” I say, exasperated. Then there’s a pause.
“Well, we do need something,” she giggles, and I nod.
“What is it?”
“Your dad put an empty box of wine in the fireplace, thinking it would be good kindling. Only, it flew right up as soon as we opened the flue, and now it’s stuck. We can see it, but our arms aren’t long enough.”
I turn the key, making my truck purr to life. “Be there in fifteen unless the roads are worse off than I think.”
I can feel and hear her smile. “Thank you, son. See you soon.”
* * *
By the timeI make it to my parents’ house, I’m in a bad fuckin’ mood. Bad even for me.
“It’s a fuckin’ fire hazard to put a booze box in here!” I growl from my spot on the floor; my arm rammed up the chimney flue.
“Don’t curse around your mother, jackass,” my Dad growls, smackin’ me on the shoulder.
From the kitchen, my Mom’s hum drifts toward us, breaking the tension slightly.
“Why are you so grouchy anyway?” Dad asks me because I usually find a way to shelve my attitude when I’m with ‘em. Tonight I just feel so out of sorts I can’t manage to set it aside.
“Just… bad night.”
“Why?” he presses, and I don’t feel like bein’ pressed.
My fingers finally connect with the lip of the box, and I start maneuvering it free, one inch at a time, until it crashes down, sending ash and soot everywhere. I cough, Dad coughs, and then I’m off my back, crushing the box into the carpet with my boot.
“Here,” I say, handing him the aftermath. “Garbage,not fireplace.”
He rolls his eyes and stomps off, grabbing his coat.
“Just put it in the inside garbage for tonight, Dad,” I argue against his back. But he waves a hand in the air behind me, and I know even if he realized it made more sense, the fact that I suggested it means he’s gotta trudge through the snow to the outside garbage can, for spite.
I get it.
I smirk and dust my hands on my thighs as I make my way into the kitchen. Mom’s at the stove, slicing brownies. The kitchen smells like dark chocolate fucked a cake and made the most perfect love child ever.
Taking a seat at the table, she slides me a brownie and a huge glass of milk.
“What made the night so bad?” she asks, sitting in the chair across from me.
Here’s the moment of truth. If I tell my Mom I’m sniffin’ around Goldie, she won’t let it die. As it is, she still casually ponders what Lesley Canel is up to every now and then. Lesley Canel, of course, being my fuckin’ sixth grade girlfriend. But I practice what I preach, and I ain’t no goddamn phony.