I force myself to remember last night. Steve’s strangled groan of recognition. The smile I felt on Declan’s lips as we both heard it. How I tried to pull away and Declan tightened his grip. The hiss of his whisper as he said, “He has no power over you. He discarded you. Don’t give him that power back. You are worth so much more.”
The hurt look in Steve’s eyes, the first genuine emotion I’d seen in him in over a year.
My own heart tugging me toward Steve, in search of more of the real him. Being torn between the two men, and letting paralysis win, which made it seem like, by default, I’d chosen Declan.
But…
“Earth to Shannon!” Amy says, bringing me my beloved nectar o’ java. I take two large, hot sips and sigh, grateful. Amanda becomes my beta in the best-friend hierarchy. Blood—and coffee—is thicker than best-friend water.
Mom re-enters my bedroom and I get a good look at her. Lilac yoga pants cut to fit curves. A V-neck cotton white shirt with some lycra to it. A sports bra underneath. White Crocs. She looks so fitness-perfect. Her hair hangs in light layers around her face, cut with a whisper touch by a new stylist she found in Wayland. I can see why she makes the drive—he’s that good.
There’s a glow in her face that makes me think life is going well for her. I don’t often think of her as Marie Jacoby. She’s Mom. Just…Mom. Not an actual human being with feelings and hopes and her own tangled inner and outer life. Always a parent, my bedrock Mommy who attended to skinned knees, made Elmo cupcakes for my birthday treat when I turned five, and who steadfastly combed through my lice-ridden hair after my failed prom date gave me an apologetic kiss on the cheek.
And a bad case of lice.
Lice. Bad jokes. Declan. Last night. His mom dying the day after his prom. Tears threaten the edges of my eyes and a wellspring of unbridled emotion hits me, hard. The blend of his touch, his restrained storytelling, but the look on his face that said he wanted to talk, to share, to connect. Losing your mom so young had to make you vulnerable. Losing her the day after your senior prom must have been a form of torture.
A blast of clarity cuts through my throbbing head and makes me see how beautiful Mom really is.
“You look like an AARP ad,” I say, admiring her.
Mom takes one perfectly manicured hand and places it over her heart, her face a mask of horror, my words clearly having the opposite effect as I’d intended. She’s wearing very little makeup right now, which means she’s still wearing more than I wore last night on my big date. Er…business dinner.
“What a cruel thing to say, Shannon!” she cries out, tears in her eyes. Mortified, I sit up, a cold rolling pin running from the base of my neck to my ass. I didn’t…I wasn’t trying to…oh, hell. I can’t get anything right this morning. The tears choke my throat, my brain and body sending mixed signals through synapses and nerves and veins, rendering me stupid with heart palpitations and a sudden sweat that makes my armpits feel like swamps.
I take more sips, needing reinforcement, willing my internal disappointment at myself away.
“What? That was a compliment!” My words are sharper than I want them to be. I have to snap, or the tears will take over.
“AARP is for people fifty and older, Mom,” Amy says, trying to help. “You look great for fifty-two.”
“That’s like telling a chubby girl she has such a nice face,” Mom says. She’s clearly recovered from her offended state and the claws are coming out. Chuckles winks at her. My tears dry up.
“Hey!” me and Amy shout, both representing the “chubby girl” sector in modern American society.
“See?” Mom says, triumphant. She’s a chubby girl, too. “That’s what the AARP comment felt like. A reminder that society has oppressive expectations for gender and age norms.” She crosses her arms over her ample lilac bosom and gives me and Amy looks of disdain. She’s Gloria Steinem in yoga pants and 3-D mascara.
“Mom’s been reading Jezebel again,” Amy says.
“You don’t really think I look old enough to be an AARP member, do you?” Mom asks me.
“You are old enough to be a member, Mom. In fact, you have a card. I see you use it to get ten percent off groceries at the gourmet market on Tuesdays when they have their senior citizen days.” What else am I supposed to say? My shoulders slump and I feel like I’m carrying Steve’s ego on them. You try to give a person a compliment and suddenly you’re the Antichrist.
Mom scowls, then winces when I say senior citizen. “That’s different. That’s financial optimization.”
“No one is insulting you, Marie,” Amanda adds. She’s been watching this unfold. “And all they’re doing is deflecting Shannon from spilling the truth about her date last night.”
All three sets of eyes zero in on me. Bing! My brain struggles to keep up with the constant topic shifts. It’s like listening to Russell Brand talking about politics after drinking three shots of espresso.
“We kissed! We touched,” I confess. “Steve walked in on us kissing and touching. And then the Ice Queen made fun of Steve’s penis and bank account, and by the time Declan and I got to the table, they were gone.”
“Who was gone?” Mom asks.
“Steve and Jessica.”
“Back up! Back up!” Amy announces, holding her palm out like she’s a cop directing traffic. “Let me understand. You were kissing Declan—your business associate—and your ex-fiance walked in on you?”
“That about sums it up,” I say meekly.
A slow smile broadens my sister’s beautiful face. “That is the best revenge story I’ve ever heard.” She reaches her palm out to high-five me, and I give it back. Except I miss and go flying across my bed, falling flat on my face as Amy rescues my coffee. A mouthful of high-thread-count Egyptian cotton from my sheets fills my mouth.
Mom just gives me the evil eye, as if I shouldn’t still be so out of it. You try absorbing last night and all the permutations and implications and wines and not wake up in the morning with a coordination problem.
“He’s dating Jessica Coffin,” Amanda says to Mom and Amy, her eyes wide and knowing. The attention is suddenly off me, and I sit up and steal back my coffee.
“Oooooh!” they squeal in unison. Why do they act like I’m supposed to know who she is?
“Jessica is the society-pages chick in Boston Magazine,” Amy explains, eliminating the need for me to ask. “Her family’s foundation is doing malaria research in Africa. She goes on these huge expeditions and helps.”