Rock Chick Redemption
Page 100

Hank stared at me as if he was considering checking my forehead to see if I had a fever.
“Yes,” he said slowly. “Two people talking is the same as two people having a conversation.”
“Do you mean, a Hank Conversation? The kind with a capital ‘H’ and a capital ‘C’?”
His brows drew together. “Have you been drinking?” he asked.
“No, I haven’t been drinking!”
He sighed and straightened, giving me his ful attention.
“Maybe you should tel me what’s on your mind.” I didn’t actual y have anything on my mind other than what was on his.
“Nothing’s on my mind,” I admitted. “Except, when we have this conversation, we aren’t having it in bed.” After I made my declaration, he watched me for a beat then shook his head. “Jesus, you’re a nut,” he muttered, pul ing off his sweater.
“I’m not a nut!”
He tossed his sweater in the direction of his boots, then his arm came around my waist and he pul ed me to him again.
He bent his head to mine and, with his lips twitching he said, “I mean that in good way.”
“How is cal ing someone a nut good?” I flashed.
“Sweetheart, are you done in the bathroom?” he asked patiently.
“Yes,” I grumbled.
He kissed my forehead, let me go, walked in the bathroom and shut the door.
I turned, straightened his boots and folded his sweater and put it on the bed.
“Your Dad is a nut if anyone’s a nut, he thinks my parents are interesting. Interesting! That’s just plain crazy,” I told Shamus who sat by the bed, staring at me and wagging his tail. “He hasn’t cal ed them nuts and they are nuts.” I put on my underwear and then spritzed with Boucheron and carried on talking to Shamus. “As soon as Bil y’s caught, I’m taking you out to play Frisbee. If you don’t know how, I’l teach you. I’m good with Frisbees. Gil and I used to play in the front yard al the time. We’l go and buy like, ten of them just in case they get lost in trees or something. You and me wil be Frisbee freaks. We’l enter competitions.
They’l do documentaries about how good you are with Frisbees. You’l be the Frisbee Dog King.” I figured Shamus was in to the Frisbee gig as he got up on al fours and his body started shaking with his tail, his excitement was so great.
I leaned over him and gave him a ful body doggie rub.
“I’d take you tomorrow, but Bil y’s stil out there and I don’t think Luke would like the whole Frisbee idea. He doesn’t seem the Frisbee type,” I told Shamus.
I heard a noise and turned my head to see Hank standing in the bathroom doorway, shoulder leaned against the jamb, belt undone, jeans mostly undone, socks gone, watching me.
“Frisbee Dog King?” Hank asked.
Oh shit.
Okay, so maybe I was a nut.
I straightened, looked to Hank and Shamus sat on my feet.
“Come here,” Hank said softly.
“No,” I told him. “I have a feeling you’re going to ruin my hair.”
“Come here,” Hank repeated.
“No, Hank. It took me forever to do my hair.”
“Sunshine…”
“Oh, al right.”
I had to go to the other bathroom to fix my hair.
* * * * *
Once I finished fixing my hair, I helped Dad tie his new bow tie to his new tux. This took me six tries. These six tries were interrupted by Mom slapping my hands away and trying to tie it six times herself. Then, I slapped her hands away and tied it on the second go of my second attempt. “Don’t know why I need to own a tux,” Dad grumbled, pul ing at his col ar.
“Herb, we talked about this,” Mom said.
“We didn’t talk about it,” Dad returned. “You just upped and bought it. I’ve worn a tux twice. To my senior prom, and you were my f**kin’ date, and to our wedding, and you were my f**kin’ date to that too. I’m fifty-eight years old and, counting today, I’ve worn a tux three times in my life. I don’t need to own one.”
My Dad was as cheap as they come. He’d pinch the last drop of blood out of a penny (if a penny had blood).
Unfortunately for him, my Mom spent money like it grew on trees. I knew that day shopping had been pure torture for him. The tux was just plain cruel.
“You have two daughters who, pray to the Sweet Lord Jesus, wil get married one day. You’l need a tux for their weddings,” Mom pointed out.
“Mimi says she’s gettin’ married in Vegas. I don’t need a tux for that, I need a pair of shorts and a Hawaiian shirt and I’ve got, like, twelve of those.”
Mom whirled on Dad and, aghast, she exclaimed, “You are not wearing a Hawaiian shirt to Mimi’s wedding, I don’t care if it’s in Vegas.”
“I am,” Dad said.
“You are not,” Mom replied.
“Yes… I… am!” Dad repeated.
“Guys –” I tried to butt in (and failed).
“Wel , Roxie isn’t getting married in Vegas. Roxie’s going to have a designer wedding. You’l need a tux for that,” Mom said.
This was true. I was going to wear Vera Wang and Manolo shoes. I was going to have shrimp cocktail (not those little, useless shrimps but the meaty king prawn ones) and I was going to spend ten thousand dol ars on flowers; there were going to be flowers everywhere. I told them about the flowers and shrimps when I was eight. They’d been saving ever since.
“The way she and Hank’re going, Roxie’l be knocked up in a few months. It’l be a shotgun wedding and she’l have to get a dress from JC Penny.”
Both Mom and I gasped.
“Dad!” I shouted just as Mom yel ed, “Take that back, Herb!”
“Wel , excuse me, but they practical y jumped each other over the breakfast table. You were there, Trish, you saw it.
Hel , she’s livin’ with the guy!” Dad defended himself to us both and then turned to me. “Not that I mind, Roxie. I like Hank. And, it’s your time. You ain’t gettin’ any younger, you hear what I’m sayin’? Anyway, Hank’s a good-lookin’ guy, you two’l make beautiful babies.”
Good God.
“I am not getting a dress from JC Penny!” I snapped (priorities, of course). “And I’m not going to have a shotgun wedding! And I didn’t practical y jump Hank over the breakfast table!”
“Right,” Dad said, just a hint of sarcasm in his voice (okay, a lot of sarcasm). “Jesus. I’d like a f**kin’ grandchild before I’m slobberin’ in my f**kin’ Jel -O. Gil ain’t ever gonna get married, he and Kristy don’t believe in marriage, whatever the hel that means. Mimi goes through men like water. Roxie’s final y caught herself a live one. Hank’s a man’s man. Roxie, the way I see it, you and Hank are my only hope,” Dad told me.