Which is my cue to run back to the car. The woman is tapping on the window as if Aidan were a goldfish, and he is, understandably, cringing away.
“He’s fine, ma’am,” I say, trying to tamp down my annoyance. “The car is on, and he’s six.”
“So you’re saying he could just drive away if there’s a problem?” she snaps, turning on me in a cloud of brown hair and perfume. She’s getting in my face, and I feel a familiar slick of discomfort on my palms. “I don’t know where you come from, but kids around here don’t drive at age six.”
“Here,” I mutter, pushing past her. “I come from here. And he’s just fine.”
Maybe if I keep telling myself that it’ll be true.
I hear her mumbling something about young people these days, even though she looks to be my age, or maybe younger, but then I get the door closed, and it’s just me and Aidan.
“You okay?” I ask.
“I don’t like that woman,” he says, grazing his lips with his nails. “Can I have my blanket?”
I fetch it from the trunk, ignoring the woman, who calls out, “Leaving him again, huh?” which twangs an uncomfortable song on my nerves. Because one parent walked out on Aidan, and I’m going to make damn sure I’m always there for him, even if I have to staple our sleeves together. The rest of the evening passes without any sort of mishap, although Aidan kept his weighted blanket on the whole way home. I pack him off to Maisie’s, stopping in for long enough to kiss the baby—Mabel is another redhead, bless her; our father would be tickled by that—before continuing on to Molly’s house.
It’s a bit of a fixer-upper that never got to the fix-up stage, but Molly and her two roommates seem to love it. I’ve only met them once or twice. They seem nice, though, like the kind of friends you could call at two in the morning if something happened. I’ve never really had friends like that. The only people in my life like that are Molly and Maisie, but I don’t think I’d ever call either of them at two in the morning.
The thing is, I’m the big sister—I’m supposed to take care of them, not the other way around. I remember my mom making a point of that one day after Molly darted into the street when she and I were walking the family dog. She almost got hit by a car, and Mom grabbed me by the shoulders and said it was up to me to keep her safe because I was her big sister.
Too bad I’ve always sucked at being a good one.
I immediately head around back, as Molly instructed, just in case one of her roommates has a guest over. An acquaintance in college told me that someone will hang a sock on their doorknob to tell their roommates they’re getting busy, and I don’t want to walk in and see a bunch of socks. I think I’ve blushed enough for one day.
Only one person’s waiting in the back, though, and it’s not Molly.
“Oh, sorry,” I say, glancing around as if Molly might be hiding under the picnic table. “Molly told me to come back here.”
Her scary friend, the one with the pink hair and nose ring, nods. “She did. Because I told her to. This, Mary O’Shea, is your intervention.”
“Intervention?” I ask. “I’ve never even smoked a blunt. Heck, I’ve only been drunk twelve and a half times.”
“Exactly,” she says with a healthy dose of disgust. “Does that sound like a person who’s living life?”
“Actually, it does,” I say, keeping my distance. My heart is racing, although I’m not sure why. “It sounds like someone who’s doing a good job of not dying.”
She shakes her head with something like pity, and to my shock, I find myself taking a step toward her. Then another. “The fact that you think they’re the same thing says it all.”
“One of those twelve and a half times was on Thanksgiving,” I admit. “So, I don’t actually remember your name. Or know why you’d think I need an intervention.”
“I’m Nicole,” she says, not offering her hand for a shake. “And you should probably sit down. This might take a while.”
I glance around again. “Does this mean Molly’s not coming?”
“She and her roommates went out for dinner.”
“That sounds nice.” I’d rather be with them, to be honest, but it would be rude to say so. Still, I take another step closer.
“You’d rather be with them,” she says, her expression smug. “I can see right through you.”
Some residual anger from the other night, the terrible Not-Santa night, bubbles back up. “Good. Then maybe you can fill me in on what, exactly, I can do to make my life not suck. I’m all ears.”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” she says with a smile, her teeth sharp and almost feral. “I’m starting a new Bad Luck Club, and I want you to be my first sponsee.”
I know what she’s talking about. Actually, anyone with an internet connection would probably know what she’s talking about. Molly’s boyfriend, Cal, and his father, Bear, started a club to help down-on-their-luck people turn their lives around. It became kind of a media sensation, what with someone stealing their idea and writing a bestselling book about it. Molly was the one who revealed them as the true creators, and since then it’s gained even more of a following—with Bear appearing on a major talk show to tell his story.
So, yeah, I know about the Bad Luck Club.
But my life’s not that bad, is it? I’m floundering, yes, but I have a good job, I have a roof over my head, and I’ve never struggled to put food on my son’s plate. I’m doing okay when it comes to the things that matter.
I venture to say so, and Nicole laughs in my face.
“Someone’s always going to have it worse, but from where I’m sitting, you need plenty of help. You’re a single mother with a special-needs child. You probably haven’t had an orgasm in five years, and you’ve only been drunk twelve and a half times. Oh, and your parents died when your little sister was only seventeen. Molly needed a guardian, and she chose to stay with your middle sister rather than you. Does that about sum it up?”
God, when she puts it that way…
Did I tell her all of that on Thanksgiving, or does she know some of it from Molly? I feel a little pulse of anxiety at the thought of Molly having shared so much. Does Nicole also know about our dad?
Before our parents died, Molly found out that he was cheating on our mom. She tried to tell me back then, but I refused to listen to her, even though I knew she was probably right. Mom had confided in me in ways she hadn’t confided in my sisters, and I knew how much she’d struggled with Dad’s flightiness. Yeah, some big sister I’ve been. I told myself I was protecting her and Maisie, that I was doing and saying what my mother would have wanted, but maybe I just didn’t feel capable of dealing with another heartache. Molly and I have healed our relationship, mostly, but I haven’t forgiven myself. I shouldn’t forgive myself, for that and a whole filing cabinet’s worth of other things.
Still, that’s not how I respond to Nicole. For some unearthly reason, I sputter, “Please. Five years ago? Try never.”
My alarm bells go off instantly. I shouldn’t have told her that. It’s insane for me to have told her that. I don’t know this woman at all. For all I know, she could have snuck onto Molly’s property both times I’ve talked to her. Maybe she’s a complete stranger who’s stalking me. Like Jennifer Jason Leigh’s character in Single White Female.