Chapter 10 #2
Nola and I show up dressed like we had the same idea: greasy food in comfy clothes.
She’s wearing joggers again and a loose sweater.
Her hair’s not quite dry and I spy some light blue paint near her temple.
No makeup and no apologies about her appearance.
It’s refreshing after being tied to women who made it their job to be Page Six ready at all times.
I adjust the pant leg on my joggers and play with the tie on my hoodie. Tom tries to bite back a smile as he places soda waters in front of us. When he steps away from the table, out of Nola’s sight, he nods at her and mouths, ‘Ben Franklin. Nice.’
“I’m glad we’re doing this,” I say to her.
She takes a slow sip of her soda water and watches me over the tilted glass. “You sure know how to make a girl feel special.”
“You chose the spot.”
“You’re not dumb, Max.” Maybe not, but I am confused. “When I gave you M&M’s, I wasn’t assuming we’d become best friends, but I also didn’t peg you as a ghoster.”
Ah. She wanted me to use her number before now and I failed her test. With a big sigh, I say, “I wasn’t.
I’m not. I didn’t know what to do. Stella’s situation is new .
. . ish and so far, I’ve been able to compartmentalize my caretaking life from the rest of my life.
I hadn’t expected to have those two worlds intersect that day, and definitely not like that. ”
Her face softens, and she leans her arms on the table, tilting her body toward me. “I can respect that. I just wish you would’ve given me some idea you hadn’t found my gesture insane.”
“Not at all. It was really appreciated,” I promise her.
“She reached out to me last week and we met for lunch. Did she tell you?”
I think back to dinner on Monday night with Stella and Violet and how my grandmother had off-handedly mentioned meeting with candidates and bringing up Nola’s name.
I’d assumed it was to get a rise out of me and hadn’t given her commentary my full attention.
I look at Nola and shake my head. It’s not worth admitting that Stella did say something, but I had been in my head too much to listen.
“Can I ask one question?”
“We’ll see.” I lean back and adjust my baseball hat, waiting.
“What’s her diagnosis? It’s not my business, I know that, but I was there that day. And I’ve seen her on other days when she doesn’t . . .”
“Slip?” I fill in the blank. She gives a small nod and I pause, studying her a long minute, determining if I can trust her.
She waits patiently and I can’t think of any reason to not fill her in when she’s witnessed my grandma on her best and worst days.
With a sigh, I decide she passes. “Two summers ago, Stella was found in the middle of Palm Springs—where she had lived nearly her whole life—singing. She was convinced she was doing a show at Mervyn’s, a restaurant she used to sing at sometimes.
Except, she was standing under the famous Forever Marilyn statue down the street from the restaurant.
She knew her name but not how she’d gotten there from her house.
Long story short, she’s got early stage dementia and for her, she reverts back to her younger life for a spell and then is lucid again.
Could be a few minutes, or like the day you saw her, a couple of hours. ”
“I’m sorry. That’s got to be hard to watch.”
“Bless Opal. She moved up here five years ago to live closer to her daughter and begged her best friend to ride out her golden years with her, even if Stella won’t remember her eventually. I made all the arrangements and came up too, to be near her.”
“That’s why this portrait is so important to her, isn’t it?”
I nod. “What did she say during your meeting?”
“I have to give her a color palette that visually represents her based on our meeting.” She gives me a smirk. “That’s what I was working on when I missed your call.”
“And you leaned toward blue?” Her eyes narrow and I tap my temple.
Nola’s nose scrunches when her fingers find the leftover paint near her hairline. Even with the bar’s dim lighting, there’s a visible blush on her cheeks. It’s endearing. “Well, that’s awkward. Blue was my starting point, but that was hours ago.”
“And what did you decide?”
“Definitely not for Stella.”
“Nope,” I agree. “What’d you land on?”
“I’m not telling you,” she says before smugly adding, “but I nailed it.”
“Fine, but just because you canceled your end of the quid pro quo doesn’t mean I lost mine.”
She rolls her eyes. “You figure out what you need from me?”
“You can’t rush something like this, Nola.
” I stretch my arms out and rest them on the back of the booth seat.
Being in the place where we met is making me feel like risk-taking.
I have an idea forming—I think back on what Aaron told me about what kinds of stipulations would be put in place if I were to return to baseball—but I want to finalize the whole thought before I present it to her.
I’m leaning toward a couple fake dates over the course of a few months.
We have a rapport going now and I bet for the right price, I could get her to agree.
“When you get a quid pro quo, you have to save it for the right moment.”
The server drops the extra-large nacho platter in front of us and Nola goes for a chip, scooping a healthy amount of guac and plopping it into her mouth.
I like the ease between us. We’re both holding cards close to our chests, but I don’t feel any need to prove myself to her and I can tell she feels the same way with me.
We’re two people, in sweats, eating messy nachos together the night before Thanksgiving. It’s kind of perfect.
Nola pauses and pulls her phone from her crossbody bag.
She gives it a quick glance before excusing herself and heading back to the hallway where we first talked to one another.
I take the moment to glance around the bar, conversations blending until it all sounds like static noise.
There’s a high-top table of women who’ve been eyeballing me since we walked in.
I glance their way. They giggle and say something to one another.
Then watch me again. It’s been a one-sided game but I get the idea they’re plotting.
They’ve definitely figured out who I am.
Nola slides back into her seat and puts her phone down on the table. “Sorry about that. It was Emma and I always take her calls.”
“Absolutely. Is she okay? Is she with Reese?” This proves to me once again that I am not a great kid-person if it wasn’t until this moment that I realized I’m hanging out with a single mom at night during a holiday break. Except, she invited me.
“Oh, she’s fine.” Nola’s smile is tight. “She’s in Seattle for the week with her grandparents.”
Her statement lands odd—why would her daughter be at her parents’ without her right now?
A random week in summer? Sure. Spring break?
Fair game. But Thanksgiving is the epitome of family time, even if my family takes the unorthodox route.
Her lips may be pursed in a don’t-ask-further-questions kind of way but she’s seen my grandma in a vulnerable state.
It’s only fair she spills the secret that she doesn’t get along with her parents or whatever it may be. “You didn’t want to see your parents?”
“My parents live in town,” is all she says.
“Oh, they took her to Seattle for the holidays?”
“No. She’s visiting my in-laws.”
The next sequence of events happens so fast, it feels surreal.
I’m about to ask Nola what that could possibly mean when one of the co-eds from the high-top table comes up to our booth.
I look up at her to offer my obligatory ‘Hello, do you want a photo? Would you like an autograph?’ pitch when she thrusts herself onto my bench, grabs my face, and yells, “Maxford Hutchings, I love you! Marry me!”
What she says barely has time to register when my hands go up to push her away.
The woman reeks of tequila and she uses her uninhibited momentum to roll us flat onto my bench, my elbow cracking on the side of the table as we go down.
Her shiny eyes tell me she’s determined to get her kiss.
I turn my head and prepare to push her up, just as I feel her lifted off me.
Expecting to see Tom taking care of business, I’m treated to an enraged Nola, both hands on the woman’s shirt, tossing her away from our booth.
I sit up and notice half the bar has stopped what they’re doing to watch this play out.
Tom’s on guard, in the middle of the floor, ready to toss the woman and her friends when Nola’s hand goes up to stop him, ready to take on the woman herself.
The drunk coed stumbles a bit before gaining her footing and looks at Nola.
With a heady attitude and eyes half-closed, the co-ed sputters, “And who are you?”
Nola’s short like Violet, probably under five foot five, so not really intimidating by most standards, especially tonight in joggers and paint.
But at this moment, she looks fierce. With the glare of death, she takes a step toward the woman and calmly announces, “Nobody, and I mean nobody, kisses my husband.”