“If pastels and floral print could get me laid, I’d consider it.” My head falls back on a groan. “But no bother, I don’t need help in that area.”
Red blazes across my cheeks. My mouth falls open. I’m silent. Mom is dying.Laughing.She’s dying laughing. Although, I clock the mental death humor as something she’d be proud of.
“You should see your face right now, baby girl.”
“Youcan’tsee my face right now.”
“Oh, yes I can. You came out of myvagremember? I know all your faces.”
“I actuallydon’tremember, and I’m starting to think there was a mistake at the hospital.”
A newborn baby swap is the only logical explanation as to why my mom gets more action than I do. Any other possibility, I don’t want to entertain the thought. Richard Adelson pops into my brain without invitation—the bastard—and a full body shiver courses through me. My fifty-three-year-old cancer-ridden mother has a boyfriend. I donothave a boyfriend. My fifty-three-year-old cancer-ridden mother has sex. I’mnothaving sex.
God, save me from this conversation.
“So, “ Mom starts. “You, the sundress. Cute guy, maybe order a drink and?—”
“You know I don’t drink on the first date.”
She rolls her eyes. Yeah, I know her faces too. “One drink won’t kill you.”
“No. No alcohol on the first date is a non-negotiable.”
“Fine, stick to your rules. I trust your judgment, just have an open mind, okay? Don’t decide you hate him before you even step foot in the restaurant.”
My shoulders sink. That’s fair. “Yeah, okay.”
The line goes quiet. I imagine Mom poised on the other end about to drop some deep philosophical, poignant thought about finding happiness, taking life by the horns, something carpe diem-esque. Instead, she says, “And wear the sundress.”
I snort. “My god, Mother.”
“Wear it.”
“Fine!”
“Promise.”
“I’ll wear the damn dress, Mom. It better be made of unicorn cotton and leprechaun thread.”
“It’s not, but you look beautiful in it.”
I huff. “I can’t believe my own mother is pimping me out.”
“Pimping you out? I didn’t say a word about your tits and ass, I said it looks beautiful on you. Get your head out of the gutter, young lady.”
If I were a meme, I’d be Justin Timberlake staring blankly straight into camera.
I repeat. God, save me from this conversation.
“And now you’re Timberlakeingme,” Mom accuses.
“Am not,” I lie.
As though the heavens have opened, Kristen pops her head in my door, onyx curls bouncing on her shoulders. She spies the phone at my ear and begins to retreat. I snap aggressively to keep her there.Save meis the message I hope I’m conveying with my saucer eyes.
She nods, message received as she clears her throat loud enough to interrupt my mother’s ramblings about“now go have fun”and“please, don’t call me.”
“Mom, Kristen’s here and we’ve got an emergency meeting. I gotta go.”