Chapter Thirty-One
Thirty-One
It’s not like I was crossing my fingers for the house to be empty, but when she swings the door open, there aren’t many scenarios I could have fathomed that would be worse than this one: My mom stands before us, all leggy five-ten of her, in Daisy Duke shorts, a teensy tank top, and an oversized men’s flannel, blond hair pulled into a ponytail that’s lacking in neither volume nor shine.
Worse than her effortless, glamazon appearance, she’s blasting Faith Hill and I can hear voices inside bellowing the chorus and calling for her to get her ass back to the game.
Doesn’t seem that bad? Those voices are Mike and his mom, Beth.
My mom’s eyes grow as big as mine, taking in not only my surprise appearance but all of Tom: towering over us both, face beaten like a gladiator, clothes slick with blood.
“Mom,” I attempt. “This is Tom Halloran.”
“I put that one together,” she manages.
“Pleased to meet you, Diane.” His warm tone is at odds with the broken nose and gruesome shiner on his cheek. “I’ve heard just lovely things.”
“Clementine Bambi Clark.” She puts her hands on her hips. “You show up on my doorstep past midnight, driving someone else’s car, rock star in tow, and blood all over the both of you…Are you trying to make up for all the trouble you kept out of in high school?”
Tom grins at me, his tongue playfully caught between his teeth. “Are ye, Bambi?”
“It’s Bonnie,” I huff. “Can we come in? His nose is broken.”
“I’m sorry, yes, come on in.” I realize, too late, that she might be a little drunk.
“Thanks very much.” Tom nods and ducks inside the low entry of my childhood home. I have landed in a bizzarro alternate universe.
Willow bounds down the stairs, skidding and scrambling toward us, and slams her whole body into my shins. I near double over on top of her but Tom catches me by the biceps. “This is Willow,” I say, but Tom’s already crouched down to meet her, scratching her shaggy ears and under her chin.
“What a beaut,” he says. Then he stands and asks my mom for the restroom.
“Round the corner to your right,” she offers. “First aid kit’s below the sink.”
“I’ll come with you,” I say. “I can help.”
But Tom shakes his head. “I’ll be grand, I’ve bandaged up worse. Thank ye both.”
He disappears around a wall adorned with some very Dianentine porcelain plates and my mom whirls to yank me into her arms. Despite my age and how haywire the night has gone, it’s all I can to do avoid melting directly into her.
She smells like she always has: the same Victoria’s Secret body spray she’s been adding water to for decades and our yummy laundry detergent.
“I missed you way too much,” I tell her. “I’m so glad you’re feeling better.”
“I missed you, baby girl.” She releases me to hold my shoulders and stare into my eyes, serious as a stroke. “But spill right now, young lady. Why’d you hit him?”
“What?” I detangle from her grasp. “Me?”
My mom only shrugs. “It was good handiwork.”
“Diane,” Beth calls. “We’re rolling for you if you don’t stop flirting with the pizza guy and get your booty back here!”
“Hurry,” my mom whispers. She’s jumping from foot to foot. “What’s the deal? Is he a jerk? Why are you back early?”
“No, no—” And there’s no use lying. This version of my mom will mess with us all night long if I don’t come clean, and I can’t bear to inflict that on Tom or myself.
“We’re friends, he’s great. He punched a guy to protect me, actually.
We borrowed Ev’s car to get away from some photographers…
We’re just going to stay here tonight to avoid shitty journalists looking for a story. We’ll be back on the road by morning.”
The bathroom door creaks open and I hear Tom’s heavy footfalls nearing.
My mom’s eyes narrow with suspicion. “Clementine B—”
“Fine, and we’re sleeping together,” I hiss. “Don’t be weird about it, okay? I’m begging you—”
“Begging for what?” Tom asks, hands plunged into his pockets.
He’s cleaned the blood from his face, tied his hair back, and stuck a butterfly bandage across his nose to act as temporary stitches.
He looks good—like a boxer at the end of the night or the love interest from the wrong side of the tracks. I make an A+ effort not to stare.
“Begging for me to…” My mom scrambles for a suitable answer. “Introduce you to our friends. Come, come.”
She hurries ahead of us and bounds up the stairs. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen her move this easily.
“Your mam’s great,” Tom says under his breath. “Like you, but at once the very opposite?”
He’s right and I squeeze his hand briefly to tell him so.
In the kitchen, Beth and Mike are sitting on opposing sides of a Monopoly board.
Vibrant dollars clutter the table, as well as a couple of antique glasses filled with wine.
One bottle is already empty beside the banker’s stacks.
Mike’s eyes flare with recognition at the sight of Tom, while Beth seems more disturbed by the threatening combo of his injury and stature.
“Are you Hollister?” Beth asks, eyes wide.
“Yes,” Tom says without missing a beat. “Nice to meet you.”
I stifle a laugh. “It’s Halloran, Beth.”
“But I’ll answer to anythin’.”
Mike stands quickly. “Hey, man, big fan. I’ve been playing Kingfisher on repeat for weeks.”
“Thank you.” Tom presses a hand to his heart. “That’s kind.”
“Mike,” he says, sticking his hand out.
They shake heartily. “Tom.”
I give Beth a squeeze and explain that nobody is gravely injured, and then Mike scoops me into a cozy hug. It’s a little more intimate than I remember our hugs being—his hands low on my back, our cheeks touching. When he releases me, he looks a little embarrassed. I force myself not to look at Tom.
“I didn’t think we’d get to see you for another week,” he tells me.
“We got into a bit of trouble in Austin and decided to spend the night here.”
“As you should’ve. You can always come home.” My mom takes her seat. “Halloran, do you want to be the shoe or the top hat?”
“Oh no,” I say. “It’s been a long day and—”
“Tom, please.” Tom sits down beside her. “And the shoe’s grand.”
My mom nods to herself as if he passed some test, and hands him the token. “You can take two turns in a row to catch up.”
Before I can argue, the doorbell rings. Willow howls as if they intend to lay siege to us and I wonder who I wronged in my life to deserve this series of events.
Beth says cheerily, “That’ll be the pizza. Grab it for us, will you, darling? My wallet’s by the door.”
I try to keep my grumbles to myself, pay for the pizza with my stipend from the tour, and bring back the large pepperoni as instructed. When I return with napkins and paper plates, the game is back in full swing.
“I rolled for you,” Tom says as I take a seat beside him. “You’re in jail, I’m afraid.”
He looks delighted to be eating pizza, and fairly engaged in the game at hand, and all the fight fizzles out of me.
While Mike and Tom Halloran playing Monopoly together is likely an actual nightmare I’ve had and repressed, I haven’t seen Tom this at peace before with other people.
And I’ve missed home, and game night, and Willow, and my mom.
Seeing her doing this well is worth every ounce of my own social discomfort.
I kick my boots off and cross my legs up under me.
“I want my attorney,” I say, grabbing a slice. Nothing gets your stomach grumbling like witnessing a fistfight, outrunning a herd of grown men, and carjacking your best friend.
After her next turn, my mom wanders into our blue-and-white-tiled kitchen, mouth still full as she says, “Coffee, you two?”
“Mom, it’s nearly one.”
“Beth’s been plying me with Pinot. I need to wake up a bit if I have any hope of defeating the reigning champ.”
Beth’s sly smile confirms to Tom what we all already know to be true—she’s a Monopoly fiend.
“I’ll take a tea,” Tom says. “If you have one.”
“We don’t have any Barry’s,” I say. When he raises his brows in my direction, heat sweeps up my neck. “I did some snooping on the bus. Found your stash.”
“Dirty, dirty snooper.” Tom grins right at me and it’s nearly enough to knock me from my chair.
“You’re nothing like I expected from a rock star.” Mike counts his dwindling play money. “Your secret stash is some fancy tea?”
“Barry’s is the tea of the people,” I say, and Tom looks like he could propose.
“Whatever,” Mike says. “You know what I mean.” He seems kind of annoyed.
“Broken nose not cliché enough for you?”
“It helps,” Mike admits.
“His whole soft-spoken, humble thing is just an act,” I say. “He’s actually a degenerate.”
“I’ve got six lines of cocaine waiting to be railed soon as I’m left to my own devices,” Tom adds. “I’ll be tryin’ to pay a brasser with this here Monopoly money before you know it. End up spendin’ the night in the Cherry Grove slammer.”
The whole thing is so ridiculous to imagine I begin to laugh.
Tom smiles, too, but as I look at him, nose bandaged, hand cupping colorful playing dice, I find I cannot stop.
“Jesus, Clem,” Tom says, smirking.
I try to rein it in, but I’m delirious after the night we’ve had.
It’s just so funny—Thomas Patrick Halloran, international music sensation, is in my house, with a broken nose, hanging out with my mom and my ex-boyfriend, eating lukewarm delivery pizza talking about paying a hooker with Monopoly money.
I know his favorite tea and we’re sleeping together.
“I’m—” I can’t get the thought out. Tears are pricking behind my eyes. The more I try to contain myself the worse it gets. “—fine, I just—”
“Shh.” Tom’s laugh is tinged with a bit of concern. “Take a breath.”
Mike’s lips purse. “It wasn’t that funny.”
“No,” Tom agrees, still chuckling at me. “It really wasn’t.”
But I am having trouble staying upright, I’m laughing so hard.
“Church giggles,” my mom says. “That’s what we called them when I was young.”
“Me, too,” Tom says, eyes still on me with warm amusement. “You knew you shouldn’ta been laughin’ but that’s why you couldn’t stop.”
“Oh, God,” I wheeze, finally winding down. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be.” My mom is grinning at me when I wipe the tears from my eyes. “I love to see you so happy. Coffee or tea?”
I stand, still smiling. “I can make myself a cup.”
“You ever notice she won’t let anyone help her with anythin’ at all?”
“Notice?” Beth huffs. “We’ve been putting up with this one’s can-do attitude since she was a kiddo. Wouldn’t let me put her hair in pigtails. Went to school with a whole chunk down her back that she missed every day.”
She’s right, but it wasn’t just me—my mom never took handouts from the other Cherry Grove mothers in town.
All of whom, including Beth, were old enough to be her mom.
She didn’t want to be a charity case—the knocked-up teen with no husband and no money.
I learned from her that there was nothing I couldn’t do on my own.
And frankly, any attempts she made to lean on people often left her weeping into a pint of Phish Food.
“I’m self-sufficient.”
“Clementine.” My mom’s glare is one only a mother can manufacture. “You won’t let me buy you allergy medication.”
Tom’s eyes are on his vast array of colorful bills. “That sneeze is very cute, though.”
My mouth twists to conceal a spreading grin. Across the counter, a soft smile warms my mom’s cheeks as she watches us. To my shock it’s Mike who says, “Always has been. Like a baby bird.”
I could kiss Beth on her round cheeks when she adds, “I think it sounds like a broken smoke detector.”
“That, too,” Mike says.
I bring our mugs of black tea back to the table and roll, landing right on my mom’s orange property empire. A miserable groan gurgles from me.
“Pay up,” she says with wicked glee.
“Can I offer you my railroads instead? My youthful complexion?”
My mom only shakes her head. “Clementine Bugsy Malone Clark, we do not welch on our debts in this household.”
I obey, leaving me a veritable beggar, and Tom runs a hand over my shoulders in commiseration. “Your real middle name is Bonnie, you said?”
I nod around a mouthful of pizza. “Doesn’t that mean something in Irish?”
“In Scottish it means beautiful .” He looks at my mom as if to say, right?
She shrugs. “I’m just a Faye Dunaway fan.”
“It’s true,” I say. “We were Bonnie and Clyde for Halloween once. I was seven…and I was Clyde.”
Tom looks pleased, like it’s exactly what he expected of us.
“What?” My mom pouts. “I said I was the Faye fan.”
Mike’s chair creaks as he stands. “Well, I think the Scottish meaning couldn’t be more fitting.”
It’s a sweet thing to say, but the energy in the room has shifted. “Thanks, Mike.”
“I’m going to grab some more beers from downstairs,” he announces.
Tom stands, too. “I can help you?”
I cringe at the difference in their heights and wish he’d sit down.
“Nope, I’ve got it, man.”
The dust cloud of discomfort Mike leaves behind is staggering. Beth doesn’t hide her concern for her son, watching as he heads down the basement stairs. My mom makes a show of rolling doubles.
My stomach twists. “I’m going to see if Mike needs a hand with those beers.”
I’m three stairs from the basement floor when my eyes finally adjust to the shadowy light. Too many bulbs have gone out in the ceiling that neither my mom nor I were tall enough to replace. Mood lighting, we called it. Perhaps that’s Dianentine, too.
Mike’s just standing there before the fridge, lit by the fluorescent glow, hands on his hips in thought.
“Hey,” I try tentatively. I’m not going to ask what’s wrong. I know what’s wrong. “Should we talk?”
“Man…” Mike shakes his head at the cases of beer. “You are so in love with him.”