Now That You Mention It
Page 69

“What’s that?”
“You know. Emptying the crapper.”
“Gross.”
“You’re telling me.” She smiled.
It had been ten days since her surgery, and she already looked better, healthier, less tired. She had a light tan from working outside.
“You really think I could?” Poe said. “I’d love to get out of the house.”
“I’ll ask my dad, but yeah.” She took another bite of dinner. “I love your shirt, by the way. What does that mean, anyway?”
Poe’s shirt was a little crop top that had some French words written in cursive on it.
“Head full of stars,” she said.
“It’s so cute. Did you make it?”
Poe nodded.
“You did?” I asked.
“Gran’s been teaching me to sew.”
“You have to join the fashion club in the fall,” Audrey said. “It’s really fun, and we have these great sewing machines and everything.”
“I don’t know that much,” Poe said.
“That’s okay. That’s what it’s for. I’m pretty good. I can show you. My mom is great at sewing.”
“Why don’t you live with her?” Poe asked, and I cringed inwardly. Then again, I also wanted to know.
“She got married and had another kid,” Audrey said. “Her husband didn’t like me much.”
“What an asshole,” Poe said.
“Who couldn’t like you?” I said, outraged. “I have to agree with Poe. Asshole.”
She shrugged, blushing a little. “Well, anyway, I moved in with Dad full-time. But I spend a lot of time with my mom, too. Rocco’s great. I mean, he’s disgusting, too. He’s a boy, after all. He makes fart jokes all day, every day, and still can’t pee without half of it going on the floor. I’m happy not to have to share a bathroom. And my mom divorced the asshole.”
“You’re so cool, Audrey,” Poe said. “I mean, nothing fazes you.”
“It’s all a front,” she said, taking a bite of salad. “Sometimes I just pretend to be okay with everything because you know how it is. You show weakness, the mean girls attack.”
“Anyone gives you a problem, you come to me. I’m terrifying,” Poe said.
Audrey laughed. “So terrifying.” Both girls laughed, some inside joke I didn’t quite get. After all, I still thought Poe was pretty scary sometimes.
I got up to make coffee...well, really to give the girls some time to talk without the dorky aunt hanging out with them. Allegedly, I had a social life of my own.
I checked my phone, and lo and behold, my social life was right there. Sullivan Fletcher. Free for dinner Saturday?
My face flushed. I’d had my phone muted, so the requisite half hour of not appearing too eager had passed. Sure. Where did you have in mind?
The three dots of anticipation waved. My place. Audrey will be w/ Amy. 7:00 p.m.?
I counted to sixty (honestly, dating in this day and age was ridiculous) and then texted back. Sounds good. Thank you.
I had a date with Sullivan Fletcher.
I would definitely have to catch up on my shaving.
23
The date with Sullivan began to spiral into disaster before it even started.
A word to the wise: don’t attempt sexual relations to salvage what is clearly a FEMA-level catastrophe.
The first thing that went wrong was that my mother insisted that I’d told her I was going to dinner at her house that night. This, of course, was completely freakish, because she hadn’t once invited me to dinner (nor had I wanted to go, given her culinary craftsmanship or lack thereof).
“Nora, you said you’d come, and Poe is looking forward to it.” Her voice was hard as nails. Tweety screeched his support of his beloved.
“I have plans, Mom.”
“Yes. With us. I made ham.”
Ooh, ham. All that delicious sodium and cholesterol. Of course, Mom would cook it till it was jerky. “I’m really sorry,” I lied.
“I didn’t spend my day off cookin’ for you, only to have you decide you’ve got something better goin’ on, Nora Louise.”
Shit. My middle name. “Okay, okay, let me make a call.” I paused. “Can I invite someone?”
“Fine.” She hung up, mad at me for not remembering an invitation that hadn’t been offered. If Sully was willing, he and I could eat at Mom’s—dinner never lasted more than seventeen minutes, after all—leave, take a lovely walk, maybe have a drink back at his place and then see where things led. Maybe to bed, even. Hey. We weren’t kids.
And now that any shred of thought about giving Bobby another chance was dead, why not?
Bobby. I hissed at the thought. Or Robert, I should say, still hadn’t called me, and yesterday, when I’d taken the ferry to Boston, he’d conveniently been at work. My dog had been waiting there, wagging at me. A note on the table said only Please leave your key.
Which I happily did. I also took my kettle, thank you very much, looking slightly insane; my purse, my dog and a yellow Le Creuset kettle banging my leg with every angry stride.
Gloria was welcome to him.
In fact, she was the big disappointment here. One expected guys to be shallow and self-serving and all that, but when a woman behaved like an idiot, it always came as a shock. Even though I’d only known Xiaowen a couple of months now, I was positive this would never happen with her. And Roseline, forget it. She’d never dream of dumping me, not with a gun to the back of her head.
Well, whatever. I called Sullivan. “Hi,” I said. “My mother has this notion that I’m supposed to come over tonight for dinner, and she’s annoyed that I forgot, even though she never invited me. Would you mind if we went there?”
“That’s fine,” he said. “I haven’t even started cooking.”
“Okay, great. Thank you.”
“What time should I pick you up?”
“Five,” I said. “You know the elderly. They like to eat early.” My mother would kick me if she knew I’d called her elderly. “Hey, why don’t I just walk down to the boatyard? I can see Poe in action that way.”
Because yes, he’d given her a job. Audrey had texted him last night when the girls were here, and Poe had started her first ever job this morning.
So Mom swooping in with an imaginary dinner invitation, that was strike one.
Strike two was Luke Fletcher, or Luke Fucking Fletcher, as I was coming to call him.
I dressed in a cute little summer frock in bright yellow and wedge cork heels, which turned out not to be the best choice for taking a mile-long stroll on a dirt road. My ankle kept trying to roll, and it was hotter than I thought. Sweat dripped down my back, and all of a sudden, it felt like every mosquito in Maine had gotten a text as to my whereabouts.
I swatted and slapped and tried to walk faster, feeling my heel start to itch and burn where a blister was emerging. I could take off the shoes, I supposed, but the sand was hot.
Damn it! A bug flew into my hair, which was on high frizz, and got stuck there. A big bug. I tried to extricate it—it felt like a dragonfly—and, oh, crap, pulled it right in half.
“Lovely,” I said, disentangling the rest of it. “Just lovely. Sorry, dragonfly.” Of course, it had to be a beautiful insect, not these evil bloodsuckers.
By the time I got to the boatyard, I was damp, frizzier, itchy and limping. I took a few breaths and tried to exude serenity and grace. Failing that, I pasted a smile on my face and went with fake it till you make it.