Now her eyebrow does go up as she drops the napkin on her lap. “Just twice?”
“Fine, and the one time I did coke to—”
“You what?” She gasps
“Well, I guess Dad doesn’t tell you everything then, huh?”
“Apparently not,” she huffs. “Explain.”
“The pills make me tired and sick to my stomach. I drank too many energy drinks before a show to fight it, and it made me sick. So, I thought I could use a bump.”
“A bump?”
“It’s what they call—”
“I’m aware of what they call things. You, bella regazza, are not they. You are Steel, and you are mine. You are not they. So, continue and remember who I am to you. You tell me the truth, always. There is no judgment, but there may be a solution.”
“And I’m pretty chill right now, so this is no argument, but I’m going to guess my dad made some poor choices, too, once in a while when he was younger.”
“My Zandor?” She feigns shock, and I can’t help but giggle. “He was always about the ladies. Even as a young boy, pre-puberty, he showed more interest in women than the others. He looked at every one of them as if they were exotic creatures. I knew he’d be a sensual man one day.”
I love how she lights up when she talks about them when they were little.
“How so?”
“Well, he loved breasts. Not only was he the hardest to ween from nursing, but he would sleep with my bras.”
“You let him?” I laugh.
“My dear girl, I had four hellions and a husband who was deployed more often than he was at home. I did not let them make mistakes. They just did on occasion, while I was dealing with one of their brothers. But back to the bra. Money was always tight, and I had one white bra, my Sunday bra.”
“Your Sunday bra?”
“The only one I could wear under my church dress that didn’t make me look any more like a woman who spent most of her time with her husband on his back than the obvious.”
Grinning, I ask, “What’s the obvious?”
“Four boys, who were full of the devil and as close in age as you and your siblings are.”
“So, how did you find out?”
“How I find everything out. One of them would ‘throw shade’ so they didn’t get in trouble for something and tell me.”
Over tea, she talks about Dad, her eyes all lit up, as I can physically feel mine turning black, as I wonder what funny stories my mother may tell my kids one day. And it hits me. I never want to have kids. And that isn’t because my parents wouldn’t have funny stories to tell them about me; it is because I never want them to feel dark, like I do right now.
“Let me use the bathroom, and then we’ll head out.” Momma Joe smiles as she slides her chair back.
I smoked pot at a party before getting booted from school. It was the first time I had ever felt so relaxed that I thought I could go to sleep without light noise, someone rubbing soothing circles over my skin, or Mom massaging my scalp.
That’s what I feel like right now, in the middle of a busy restaurant, one that I do not blend into because I’m not dressed up like everyone else. Honestly, I give zero shits, either.
I look toward the bar and see a man, kissing the cheek of a tall blonde woman as they stand.
He’s in jeans and a suit coat. I wonder if he cares that he’s one of two people wearing jeans. I bet he doesn’t, because he holds himself with confidence, the kind of confidence that can’t be faked or learned. I bet he didn’t take on the attributes of his father or those men surrounding him, to try to act grown when he was seriously just a pretty, little scowly bitch.
I bet his moves are his own and not learned from some free porn on the internet, or a play-by-play of what his equally as inexperienced, so-called girlfriend, who seriously had to basically talk him through oral because he hadn’t a fucking clue how to eat a pussy. I’m also sure the first man to eat a pussy didn’t know how to, either, but I bet he made his girl come the first time so she didn’t have to fake it to give him confidence because—
“Oh, shit.” I slide down in my seat and wish I could disappear. Maybe I’m hallucinating.
“Tris, give me one minute.”
I look up from the table to see Momma Joe holding her phone to her shoulder with her ear. She drops her black card on the table then covers the mic. “Thomas.” Then she skates. She skates right out the door, leaving me here, a-freaking-lone with him so close by—or a hallucination—I’m not sure which is worse.
I have never hallucinated. I have blacked-out from rage.
Monsters are sleeping.
Where is the waiter? I think as I look up at the wrong time and our eyes meet.
He smiles, and his deep brown eyes sparkle.
I don’t smile. I scowl and look at the woman who’s being guided out by what I assume is the perfect amount or pressure to cause nerves to tingle and pool, but not yet catch fire.
He looks away as she says something and smiles down at her. Then he looks back as he opens the door.
“No,” I say, even though I’m sure he doesn’t hear me or speak that great of English, but I’m sure he gets it, because his smile falls as he looks away, holding the door open for his blonde.
“Su cheque, Señorita.”
I look up at the waiter as he sets the slim black leather folder with the check in it. “Thank you, er, gracias … shit.”
“Volveré en unos momentos.”
I grab the card from the table and attempt to hand it to him as he turns and walks away.
“For God’s sake,” I grumble.
“¿Estás sola, Tris? ¿Estás bien?”
“Lord, just take me now,” I mumble. Then louder, I tell him, “Go away.”
A deep rumble, like what distant thunder sounds like, and I look up to see him smiling.
“You lose your date?”
He tilts his head to the side, as if in thought, and then he smiles. “Eighteen.”
“Well, go get her, tiger.”
He looks away as he pulls his phone out of his pocket and taps the screen.
“Oh, you do know how to text, huh?”
That sound of distant thunder sounds again as he smiles at the screen, completely ignoring me.
“God, why is that waiter taking so long?” I mumble as I sit back in my chair.
“Patience, Tris,” he says, still looking at the screen.
“Well, you don’t want her to wait too long. All that romance will be a memory. As a matter of fact, she’s probably drying up out there.”
He grins and shakes his head, still looking at the fucking screen.
“She sending you nudes now? Is this part of your game? Making her wait until—”
“You amuse me. You act far beyond your years. Yet, I still like your personality.”
“Huh?” I ask, confused at his abrupt and out of place statement.
He shows me the screen. It’s a translation app.
“Stick around. You’re bound to meet more of them.”
His thick and perfectly unwaxed, or manscaped, brows crease as he reads the screen. “More personalities.”
“Yep, they come in multiples,” I joke. Well, sort of.