Chapter 24 Scarlett
SCARLETT
“Mom. Mom. Mommy. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom.”
How many times will Noah have to say Mom before I’m ready to leave my memory palace and the unforgettable way Dylan looked at me right before he kissed me that first time?
Twelve seems like a reasonable number.
Except my dad and mom both start chanting along with him. “Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom.”
“What? Hi. What?”
This is only the fourth time I’ve spaced out this morning, which is not that bad considering the night I had.
Yes, I’m already on my third cup of coffee.
Yes, I’m surrounded by my parents and son.
Yes, my son is drawing fart cartoons on the used packing paper—he calls them fartoons.
Yes, they are awesome. But my brain and body are still flooded with hormones and neurochemicals.
The logical part of my brain that shut down during sex is a little slow getting back online.
That is literally what happens when one’s brains get fucked out by a twenty-seven-year-old.
I got honked at three times on my way here because I was all blissed out at stoplights.
My hippocampus convinced my body that I was still in bed with Dylan Brodie, and my frontal lobe didn’t realize I was in my car at the intersection of Pico and Crescent Heights.
But I am not in bed with Dylan now. I’m in my parents’ new kitchen.
My dad is making omelets. My mom is making more tea.
My son wants to show me his drawings. And there are still at least fifty boxes left to unpack.
My sex partner from last night is probably somewhere in this building, which is why I actually put some effort into the way I dressed this morning and did not apply lipstick just in case I see him and my mouth gets attached to his mouth—but my life right now does not involve his mouth or hands or erect penis.
My life right now is about my parents and my son and his fartoons.
“Yes, baby. Who is this?” I look over at the drawing that Noah’s holding up. A white cloud with an unhappy face in its yellow center.
“This is Peggy. She’s going to come out of all our butts after we eat those omelets Grandpa’s making.”
“Worth it!” my dad calls out.
“Peggy doesn’t look very pleased with herself.”
“Well, she smells really bad all the time. And she gets super embarrassed in cars and elevators. She probably doesn’t get invited to many parties.”
“We are going to drink oolong tea after we eat Grandpa’s omelets so Peggy does not come out so strong.” My mother holds her index finger up in the air. “That reminds me. I have ordered tea to be delivered here. We have not put our name on the mailbox here yet, have we? Wade? Wade!”
“No, my dear. We have not done that yet.”
“I’m going to do that now so we don’t forget.”
“You could probably calm down just a little bit, my dear.”
My mother waves at him dismissively and disappears. This is their thing. I wonder if my dad has ever tried to get her to calm down the Dylan way. Nope! I don’t want to know.
My son continues to draw, and my dad continues to concentrate on chopping vegetables and cheese into tiny perfect little pieces, and I go back to thinking about Dylan’s marvelous erect penis as well as other equally marvelous parts of him for five or ten uninterrupted minutes maybe.
What I would tweet if I tweeted:
PSYCHOLOGY JUDGE: No more therapist license for you!
ME: But he has an eight-pack!
I hear the front door open, and I hear my mom talking. I can tell from her voice that she’s talking to a man. “Come in, come in! No no no! You don’t have to take off your shoes. Come in, come in!”
My brain might still be a little slow, but my body somehow knows that Dylan is in the near vicinity.
I haven’t had time to unpack the Fuck It box yet, and I haven’t had the time or mental capacity to form any new thoughts either.
Everything’s moving in slow motion now as my mother leads Dylan into the kitchen.
“Come, come.” She presents him to us. He’s wearing jeans and a Henley shirt and it looks like he just took a shower, and my vagina is the only part of me that’s ready to greet him.
I pretend to be too interested in Noah’s most recent fart drawing to notice him.
“Look who I met in the lobby! This is Dylan from the top floor. He has not had breakfast yet. We need to fatten him up! Wade! Make Dylan an omelet! Go get the other chair from the dining table!”
“Would you like me to make him an omelet, or would you like me to get a chair from the dining table? Hello, Dylan. I’m Wade and you’re not. You can call me Wade.”
“Nice to meet you, Wade. I can bring in another chair if you want.”
“No no no. You sit here next to my daughter, Scarlett. Scarlett? Scarlett!”
Dylan widens his eyes at me, ever so slightly, when I finally make eye contact with him. Fortunately, my son jumps in so I have time to decide what to do here.
“Hey! It’s Greyson Manning’s brother!”
He points at Noah as if he thinks he recognizes him. “Ashton Manning, yeah. Heyyyyy. What are you doing here? Noah, right?”
“This is my grandparents’ new place! Is Mr. Noodles with you?! Can I see him?!”
My mother has gone to fetch a chair from the dining area, but not before attempting to wink at me behind Dylan’s back.
My dad is busy whisking eggs, and my son is interrogating our surprise guest, so I have a few seconds to mentally flagellate myself for not preparing for this scenario.
If I tell my family he was my patient and my mom finds out I’ve slept with him, she’ll be a Judgey Judgerson.
If I pretend we’re meeting for the first time, at least it leaves open the possibility that we could start seeing each other publicly eventually—if that’s the way things go.
In two years. Maybe less if he keeps fucking my brains out.
My eyes meet Dylan’s again, and I shake my head at him, almost imperceptibly.
He nods. I think he understands. And I think he’s happy about my decision.
My mom returns with the chair. “Sit! Sit! Have a seat next to my daughter. This is Scarlett. Dylan lives in the penthouse! All by himself…”
“Not by himself! He lives with Mr. Noodles! Mom! Can I go see Mr. Noodles?”
“We have to eat breakfast first.”
“Very nice to meet you, Scarlett.” He holds out his hand.
I’m afraid if I shake it I’ll cry out Oh my God, Dylan, yes! But I don’t want to appear rude in front of my parents, and I mean, I really want to touch him. “How do you do? Dylan, was it?”
“Dylan Brodie.” He takes the seat next to me after letting go of my hand.
“Dylan is an actor,” my mother informs me.
“Uh-oh!” my dad mutters.
My mom swats at him as she goes to get another table setting. “He has done stage plays on Broadway, so you know he is good.”
“Well, that is very impressive.”
“Thank you. But perhaps you recognize me from my old Disney Channel show, That’s So Wizard! Some adult women enjoy watching it, I’m told.”
“Is that so?”
“Multiple times, I’ve heard.”
“Well, I doubt I’d have time to do that, but I’ll check it out.”
“You watched it with me, Mom! He’s Greyson’s little brother!”
“Oh, that’s right. I remember Shane Miller. He was adorable.” I get a discreet pinch on the side of my thigh for that. “And I do remember you now, Dylan. I was struck by your talent. You’re very skilled.”
“Mom, can I see Mr. Noodles after breakfast though?”
“That’s up to Dylan, honey.”
“Yeah, you can definitely come over.”
“You sure you aren’t too busy?” I give him a look.
“Well, I just have to read a couple of scripts. I was supposed to have coffee with someone, but I think it might be canceled.”
“Sorry to hear it.”
“It’s fine. I already convinced the person of the thing I was going to convince them about over coffee, so it’s no longer necessary.”
“Sounds like you’re jumping the gun,” I mumble into my coffee mug.
“Dylan, I have a lot to offer you here,” my dad says from over by the stove. “Why don’t you tell me what you don’t want on your omelet. You good with cheese?”
“In small amounts, for sure.”
“Oh hey, Dylan! Look at this!” Noah riffles through his papers and holds up a drawing of a smirking orange cloud. “This is Cheddy. The cheese fart.”
“That is fantastic. Cheddy looks pretty cheeky.”
“He’s very popular and fun at parties. He’s good at telling jokes, and he’s easier to hide than a lot of his friends are.”
“Just a little cheese for all of us, Wade,” my mother says. “You always use too much cheese. And salt.”
My dad sighs a weary sigh. “You’re the gourmet around here, Evelyn.” Another nod to Clark Griswold. Good one, Dad.
“What are you working on now, Dylan?” my mother asks as she takes a seat to the other side of him. “Or is it a secret?”
“Well, I don’t usually have a lot of secrets, Evelyn, but I actually can tell you that I will be doing a guest spot on my real-life older brother’s new show. It’s called Funny Business, and I’ll shoot that in a couple of weeks.”
“Oh, you didn’t tell me that,” I blurt out and then immediately add: “Just now, I mean. You didn’t mention that just now—after we met for the first time.”
“It came together fairly quickly. But in a very satisfying and beautiful way.”
“Scarlett is a psychotherapist,” my mother explains. “Her office is quite close to here.”
“Is that right?” Dylan isn’t doing a very good job of acting like this is news to him. “You must meet some interesting people in that line of work, Scarlett.”
“A lot of them are pretty full of themselves, actually. And unruly.”
“Well, I’m sure you straighten them out eventually.”
“Mom, do I have to go to Dad’s place today?”
“He’s expecting you later, yes. I was going to drop you off.”
“But what if I want to hang out with Mr. Noodles?”
“Who is this noodle man you keep talking about?” my mother asks.
“She’s the kitten I found at school, and Dylan took her home. He was there because he gave a talk to my class. As Macy’s uncle. Macy is the girl I told you about who’s really bad at singing, but she’s always singing and talking about wanting to sing.”
“Does that mean you have already met my grandson, Dylan?”
“Yes, it turns out I have. It’s a very small world. Kind of makes you believe in fate, doesn’t it?” He looks directly at me when saying that, of course.
“Well. It sounds like you and Mr. Noodles were destined to meet,” my mother says. “And to think you live in this building.” She also looks directly at me when saying that, of course.
“But Mom? Mom. Can I hang out with Dylan and Mr. Noodles instead of going to Dad’s? He won’t mind, I don’t think. Dad, I mean.”
“Well, he does want to see you, buddy.”
“I guess.” He seems so unsure of this, it’s heartbreaking. “I can see him next weekend though. I’d rather be with the kitten. And Dylan.”
“If it’s okay with Dylan, I’ll ask your dad.”
“It is absolutely okay with me. My home is your home. We can watch Ghostbusters, as long as you don’t eat too much cheese…”