Chapter 17 #2
But, oddly enough, the night turned out to be quite PG.
After our messy beignet adventure, we went in search of new shirts and then wandered around some more.
We strolled through the historic neighborhoods and visited those cemeteries you always see on TV.
By the time we had dinner and headed back to the hotel, it was late.
When I invited him to my room, I had every intention of stripping that man down and licking every inch of him. But he seemed to be in no rush and instead ordered us dessert and put on a movie. Before I knew it, it was morning.
It ended up being the best date of my life. And nothing even happened.
Of course, it didn’t look that way at all.
Not that my mom is the judgy type. Despite her strict upbringing, Maya Garis Valentine is definitely one of the cool moms. While she taught us how to make chocolate chip cookies and baklava, she also educated us about women’s rights and the power of no.
She demonstrates that you can cherish the past while embracing the future.
“Alone?” she presses.
My sister rolls her eyes. “Clearly, she didn’t, Mom. So can you stop tormenting her?”
I really love my sister.
My mom lets out a reluctant sigh. “Fine.”
“Good.” Vi nods. “Now, bring him out. It’s time for inspection.”
Correction. I loved my sister, as in past tense. As in no longer. She’s dead to me.
“What?” I sit up, the blankets slipping to my waist. Unlike Hendrix, I changed into a pair of leggings and a hoodie when we got back.
My sister frowns. “I hope that’s not what you wear to bed at night.”
“I agree.” My mom gives a firm nod. “Men don’t like all that fabric. Gets in the way.” I gag. Thoughts of my parents in bed with very little fabric flood my brain. “Besides, it’s too hot. You’ll wake up sweaty.”
“Aren’t you the one who taught us never to change ourselves for a man?” I ask, realizing just how epically I had failed that particular lesson during my marriage to Tanner.
“I did. A man or woman…” She tosses that in for my sister’s benefit. Always an ally, my mom. “Should love you. Not the person they want or think you should be. That isn’t love. It’s just manipulation in pretty packaging.”
A door creaks, and I turn.
“Is that him?” Vi asks.
“Where?” my mom echoes. “I can’t see! Flip the camera! Unless he’s naked. Is he naked?”
A hesitant Hendrix pokes his head out, and our eyes meet. Sorry, he mouths with a tiny smirk. My shoulders are already shaking in silent laughter.
Can’t fault the guy for flushing the toilet after he pees. Considering some of the dates my sister has complained about over the years, that trait alone makes him marriage material.
“My mother would like to know if you’re naked.”
“Um, no?” He glances down at his athletic shorts and the maroon New Orleans shirt we bought him after his other one got covered in powdered sugar. “I am not.”
“She’d also like to know your thoughts on hoodies in bed. Yay or nay?”
He stares at me as if I’m asking a trick question before he finally replies, “Depends on what’s underneath.”
“Nice,” Vi says while my mom simply laughs.
Hendrix walks over to the other side of the bed—his side, I guess, since we shared it last night—and surprises me by plopping down right next to me.
He then scoots closer, not caring in the least that he’s now in plain view of both my mother and my sister.
There’s a long moment of silence. Then, my mother lets out an audible curse. I smother a laugh with my palm while my sister mutters, “Jesus, I need to go get a glass of water.”
Hendrix turns and gives me a look that says, What’d I do?
“Seems like you have an effect on all the Valentine women.”
“Well, my mom always told me I am quite the charmer.” He smiles, and I swear every straight woman’s panties within a twenty-mile radius simultaneously bursts into flames.
“This is Hendrix,” I say as they both stare unabashedly at him. “This is my mom, Maya, and my sister, Violet.”
“You’re the new bass guitarist,” my mom exclaims.
Hendrix’s lip quirks. I doubt he expected my sixty-five-year-old mother to be up on Manic at Midnight news. “Temporary, but yes.”
And you know my daughter—” my mom starts to ask, but my sister cuts in.
“Are you guys matching?” Okay, she can live.
I look down at the hoodie I’m wearing. It is the exact same color as Hendrix’s T-shirt and bears the same simple New Orleans block lettering on the front.
“Oh, yeah. We went to Café du Monde,” I begin to say, before adding, “It’s this popular place in New Orleans—”
“Yes, yes, I know the one. I’ve seen it on TV. They sell the coffee and the fried pastries with the sugar on top.”
I am suddenly hit with a wave of guilt as I realize just how many places my mom has seen but never visited.
She has family in other countries she’s never even met, and here I am, just a few years into my thirties, getting ready to travel all over the world, while my mom has barely left the Bay Area.
How I’d love to change that one day.
“Well, when we were there, we had a bit of an incident.”
Hendrix leans in. “What your daughter is too embarrassed to say is that she made quite a mess.”
“I made a mess?” His lip twitches as he tries to keep up the charade.
“They had to call in a cleanup crew after she finished all those beignets. First time ever, actually. They took pictures.”
I push him so hard that he nearly falls off the bed, breaking into a fit of laughter as he instantly springs back.
“Okay, I may have started it,” he fesses up. “But she one hundred percent bested me.”
“She’s always been a bit competitive.” Vi laughs. “Whatever you do, don’t ask her about her fourth-grade spelling bee.”
“That thing was so rigged,” I mutter.
“So where are you guys headed next?” My mom is looking at Hendrix and me as if she’s already planned our wedding, named our kids, and picked out a nice house nearby where she and Dad can retire.
And she wonders why Vi doesn’t tell her anything about her love life.
“Texas,” we answer in unison.
“We’ll spend a week there,” Hendrix elaborates. “Wednesday is Houston, and then we go on to play Dallas on Saturday.”
“And when are you in LA?” Violet asks.
“Two weeks, I think?” I say, and before she can ask, I add, “Yes, I got you a ticket—and a backstage pass!”
“Yes!” She throws a fist in the air. “And don’t worry, Mom. I’ll get you that pic.”
“You’ve always been my favorite.”
“Hey!” I say at the same time Hendrix asks, “What pic?”
“My mom is obsessed with Asher,” I tell him with a sigh. “She’s been begging me to get a picture of him ever since I stepped onto the plane.”
“Oh, well, hell. I can get you one. I have a ton. What’s your flavor, Mrs. V? Hot and sweaty right off stage? Candid? Blooper reel? I’ve got ’em all.”
“Never mind,” my mom deadpans, focusing all her attention on Hendrix. “He’s my favorite.”
Then, I spent the next thirty minutes listening to them bond over their mutual affection for Asher Knight.