Chapter 2 #2
I bet he gets eye-banged by every woman he walks past. Most men, too. And he’d deserve it. It’s obvious he works for it. I can only imagine the stamina.
I bang out a quick yes as I polish off the second glass, the bubbles carbonating my blood and making me feel light and happy, like the summers of old when I used to enjoy knowing I was getting paid and there was a new class of eager students waiting for me on the other side.
That done, I look up just as Mom materializes at the entrance, wearing a T-shirt dress with sneakers.
Stealing the show is her untamed curly hair and signature CHA-NEL earrings.
You know those ones that spell CHA in one ear and NEL in the other and are so fucking obvious that everyone’s a bit like, Yeah, we get the message loud and clear.
You’re wearing Chanel. But damn, she looks so at home in herself.
I make a mental note to replicate this ensemble when I get home, minus the thousand-dollar earrings.
I watch as she’s stopped by someone equally as confident as Mom, the owner maybe, and her whole demeanor changes. There’s an overly enthusiastic hello. There’s a one-two cheek kiss. There’s a lot of arm holding. And then the arm holder lets go and fishes Mom’s book out of her bag.
Mom pulls out a pen, cracks open the cover, and signs the first page. When she finally sees me, she begrudgingly removes herself from her fan, who is obviously a better companion than her only daughter.
She must catch the involuntary sigh because as she approaches our table, she says, “I’m here!
I’m here!” like she deserves a medal for doing the bare minimum like turning up to the brunch she scheduled that I would have happily rain checked.
I remind myself to take more than the recommended dosage of Tylenol before I attend these monthly catch-ups. As a preventive.
“Hi, Mom,” I say, making a point to greet her as a waiter appears to pour her champagne before her butt cheeks hit the seat. I’m tempted to top myself up just to see if the waiter will have a stroke.
“Hello, Ashleigh, how are you?” she says in a low and slow register, reminding me why there’s a morning show somewhere that always wants a soundbite. Her eyes are trained on me, and I immediately chide myself. She is a therapist, and she loves a good reason to therapize.
“Good,” I say, pulling a stock standard smile that gives nothing away.
And while she is a brilliant therapist, I am a brilliant therapist’s daughter.
“Hungover. You know how it is, end of school party and all. I’m a little slow today,” I add, knowing a simple “good” is like catnip for her.
I will give her exactly what she needs to hear today to make this as painless as possible.
Before she can respond, we’re cut off by a commotion at the entrance as a man carrying a monstrous bunch of flowers the size of his head, plus five other heads combined, attempts to enter.
A security guard steps in front of the flower delivery man, blocking him from fulfilling his contractual duties.
How did I not notice this beef-hunk security man standing at the entrance when I arrived?
I mean, his back alone is what Men’s Health “body part of the month” dreams are made of.
We’re talking broad shoulders that taper into a V down to his waist. Form an orderly queue for the pull-down machine, lads.
“Please. I need to see her,” Flower Dude says, pleading, and I realize we’re witnessing some sort of romantic-gesture-slash- allergy-nightmare.
“I’m sorry, that’s not happening,” Beef Hunk says with a soothing tone that carries a hint of authority, and I can’t help but wonder what he’d sound like in the bedroom saying, “Good girl.”
While the tone would most definitely work on me, lovestruck Flower Boy isn’t buying it. He doesn’t leave. Instead he loiters, attempting to catch a glimpse of his beloved inside.
I look around the café and notice everyone has bailed on their conversations in favor of watching this episode of Days of Our Lives unfold. That’s one way to get through brunch without having to engage with Mom. Thank you, one-night-stand-turned- sad-lover-boy.
But then the show takes a turn.
“I need to see Hillary now,” Flower Boy says, as his eyes lock on my mother—and of course, he’s talking about my mom.
Mom, to her credit, hasn’t bothered to turn around at her name and instead takes a sip of her champagne. “Mom,” I say with alarm, trying to get her to face up to the drama she’s creating.
“It’s being handled,” she says, picking up the menu for a quick perusal, like nothing is happening.
“Is it?” I slide my eyes back to the entrance, and that’s when I see Annie, her assistant, standing next to Flower Boy, like it’s just another service provided by our friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.
There’s hushed conversation between them as Annie wraps her arms around him and guides him away.
“I hope you’re giving Annie a generous bonus this year,” I say under my breath.
Mom looks at me, head tilted, and I question whether I’ve taken the smartass daughter schtick a little too far, insinuating that my mother doesn’t pay her staff well when I damn sure know she does.
But then her phone pings. Annie. No doubt briefing her on the Flower Boy development.
Which I’m positive wasn’t part of the job description when Annie agreed to work with my mother.
Knowing this feels like a minor victory.
Mom flips the phone over and thinks twice about the lecture I’m pretty sure was on the tip of her tongue. “I’ve been meaning to give this to you,” she says instead, reaching into her bag and pulling out an envelope. “It’s from your father.”
I take the envelope, not bothering to ask what it is. When it comes to Mom and Dad, and their marriage-turned-divorce-turned-friendship, I just ignore it.
“You can let him know tomorrow.” Before I can ask what she’s talking about my mind snags on the word tomorrow. She must see it written all over my face.
“Isn’t tomorrow your Sunday lunch?” she asks.
My mouth goes dry. Oh. That lunch.
“Right. Of course.” I point to my head and make a stupid “silly me” face. “Damn hangover,” I repeat, trying to recover the fumble. I wouldn’t want Mom thinking I haven’t spoken to Dad in months.
It’s not that I’ve been avoiding him. Or that he’s been avoiding me. I don’t think. I guess you just wake up one day—that day being today—and realize you haven’t been invited over for Sunday lunch in months.
Mom looks at me with those trained therapist eyes for a long, hard moment. I’m not sure she’s buying it, but then, with a shrug, she decides to let it go. Thank goodness for small favors.
“So, what’s new?” Mom asks, taking a sip of her champagne as if this brunch hasn’t provided enough talking points to get us through to the last bite.
I got fired. I’m not teaching next semester. I have no money.
Of course, I say none of that out loud. Instead, I say, “Not much,” and this gives Mom the opening to launch into her latest hookup, who—surprise, surprise—wasn’t actually Flower Boy.
None of this shocks me—where do you think I got the idea for one-night stands from?