Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
OVER THE NEXT FEW WEEKS, we manage to secure interest from a handful of student orgs as well as some prominent campus departments. Now, enough groups are committed to Sextival to reserve space for twenty booths. It’s officially going to rock.
And that’s not all—Alex has been kicking ass as an instructor. Thanks to the lesson plans we crafted, the students have been completely engaged during class and absorbing the material like eager little sponges.
Between observing Alex, coordinating logistics for the event, teaching, and grading, I’ve barely had time to think. The last thing I want to do on my Sunday is spend it at my mother’s house, getting lectured.
Yet here I am.
For the past two hours, I’ve been in the hot seat at her dining room table because I once again refused to indulge in a new suitor she found for me.
This time, instead of a tennis-playing lawyer, it’s a cardiothoracic surgeon—who also happens to be a member of the club.
Big surprise. And of course, Gram made another bid for the nice young man who came to her senior living facility.
A small part of me is ready to give in just to get them off my back.
I tug at the scratchy wool turtleneck cutting off my air supply.
As bad as my Sunday clothes are, this top is the worst. I’m going to yank it off the minute I get in my car.
I chuckle under my breath. My mother would die at the thought of me driving home in nothing but my bra.
I glance to my left at Gram, who looks even more checked out than I do.
“June,” my mother says in an overly dramatic sigh. “Are you listening to a word I say?”
Nope.
But I have to play the part. So I bring a hand to my chest. “Of course.”
“So you did hear me?”
Not a word.
“Yes.”
“Well?” She eyes me expectantly.
Shit.
If I say yes, am I agreeing to go on a date with the surgeon? Worse, if I say no, will she go on another tirade about how I’ll end up alone?
“Why would she?” Gram interjects. “She teaches nutrition.”
Okay, now I’m lost. I look between the two matriarchs, and Mom throws her hands up. “Let her answer.”
Woah. This must be serious. I lean forward, folding my hands.
“Well?” she barks. “Do you know about this Sextival happening on campus or not?”
A jolt of adrenaline ripples through me. How the fuck did she find out about Sextival? In an instant, my entire body is laced with sweat.
“Sextival?” My voice cracks, and I clear my throat. “No, doesn’t ring a bell.”
“There was a blurb in the alumni newsletter this week.”
Now it makes sense. I don’t think my parents have ever visited the Barrett website, but they hoard every piece of mail from the alumni association and the university foundation.
Mom’s gaze narrows on me as if I wrote the article myself. Which I most definitely did not. “Can you imagine something so indecent at a university? Especially one as prestigious as Barrett?”
She pulls out her phone, dialing in a fit of rage.
“Who are you calling?” Under the table, I wipe my damp palms on my lap. It was already stifling in here, but now it’s downright suffocating.
She shushes me, then says, “Hi, Barbara.” An incoherent string of screeches comes through, then Mom says, “I know. I can’t believe it, either.”
Ugh. Barbara McEntire. My entire life, she and Mom have been stuck together like judgmental glue.
When I was growing up, one of their favorite pastimes was protesting outside of Planned Parenthood.
When we were in high school, Barbara’s poor daughter had to get an abortion fifty miles away so it wouldn’t get back to her mom. I’m the one who drove her.
As if sensing my discomfort, Gram rubs my back. “I’m tired. It’s time to take me home.”
My body sags with relief. I give her a grateful smile, and she reaches under the table, squeezing my hand. At least one person in this family is always on my side. I push away from the table and gather our purses from the living room.
“I gotta go, Barb,” Mom says. “June is about to drive her grandmother home.”
Just as she hangs up, I bash my shin against something in the walkway. Pain whips up my leg, and I double over, swallowing my scream.
“June!” Mom shrieks, pointing toward the Jesus statue wobbling like a bowling pin. I swoop down, catching the sculpture before it hits the tile floor.
“Nice save!” Gram cheers.
“Thanks.” I wince, rubbing below my knee. “I guess I still have sharp reflexes from all that tennis.”
My mother huffs. I managed to save Jesus, but not our purses. Though Gram’s was zipped, mine exploded all over the floor.
“Don’t worry, I’ll get it,” I say, repositioning JC back in his designated spot—smack dab in the middle of the walkway. As I rise up, a glimmer of light catches on a foil square amid the clutter that spilled from my bag.
I scramble to swipe the mess up before my mother notices, but it’s too late.
She sees it, too.
She gasps, crouching down, and the wrapper crinkles in her irate fingers. She glares at me, holding the packet in her clutches as if it’s a bag of heroin. It might as well be.
“What is this?” she asks in an astonishingly low octave.
“It’s—” My throat squeezes, and my voice dissolves.
My entire life, I’ve been shackled by the shame that comes with purity culture.
Even after moving out, I haven’t been able to flee the all-consuming guilt that rides shotgun with me through every relationship.
And despite taking numerous measures to extricate the bullshit rules that have been drilled into me since birth, they’re always there, looming in the background.
Tears sting my eyes as I reach for the condom, but she jerks her hand back. “I have to tell you, June, I’m not surprised. But I am disappointed.”
And with those words, my father strides through the front door. His happy-go-lucky demeanor evaporates as he looks from my mother to me—a warden and her prisoner. “What’s going on?” he asks.
“Well, Charles, your daughter dropped this.” She presents the condom to him, and he examines the packet.
He shakes his head in disappointment, then wanders down the hall and up the stairs.
Classic Dad. I should get him a T-shirt that says Avoidance is my superpower!
Mom huffs, turning her enraged sights back on me.
The worst part is, the condom isn’t even mine.
Well, technically it is, but it’s been in my purse almost a year.
I always carry condoms with me. It’s something I’ve done since I interned at the student health center in college.
Not necessarily for myself, but as a public service in case someone is in need.
Like your friendly neighborhood condom fairy.
“Do you really have nothing to say?” Mom asks in astonishment.
I want to scream that the fact they’re even questioning me for having a condom is ludicrous. That I’m a thirty-two-year-old woman. That it’s almost 2030. And more importantly, that there is no shame in carrying condoms around.
But not a word pitters out. All I can do is shrug.
God, I wish Charlie was here. He had too much self-respect to pretend to play the part.
He turned eighteen a week before he left for Ohio State and hasn’t been home since.
It’s the same advice he gave me—to tell them off and never look back.
This time, it’s on the tip of my tongue. I just can’t seem to get the words out.
“You know where this all started?” Mom seethes. “With that low-class Debbie Cardoso. Inviting you over for lemonade and filling your head with smut.”
That’s it. I’m not about to let her sully Debbie.
“She didn’t fill my head with smut. She—”
“I don’t want to hear it.” My mother cuts me off, turning dramatically. “I can’t even look at you right now.”
All my accomplishments, wearing these fucking clothes, trying desperately to fit into her little box … none of it’s mattered. I’ll never be good enough.
“Don’t worry, you don’t have to,” I choke out. I sweep the clutter off the floor and back into my purse, then sling the bag over my shoulder. “Come on, Gram. I’ll take you home.”
Despite my shaky legs threatening to give out, I reach the door with my head held high. My grandmother shuffles behind me, neither of us glancing back.
As we drive down the lane, Gram looks at me with sympathetic eyes and pats my leg.
“Don’t pay any attention to them. They don’t get to tell you how to live your life. I know I’ve meddled just the same, but if you don’t want a husband, I support you.”
“Really?” A lump lodges in my throat.
“Of course.” She sighs, wringing her hands. “Don’t get me wrong, I loved your grandpa. Still do. But I have so much more freedom now.” That tracks. She used to be as uptight as Mom, but ever since Grandpa died and she moved into Golden Sun, she’s really loosened up.
I flick my gaze from the road to her. “Oh yeah?”
She nods. “No one nagging me about dinner. Or cleaning the house.” She rummages through her purse, finding a candy.
“No one stinking up my bathroom. Or watching my TV.” She fiddles with the wrapper, then pops the peppermint into her mouth.
“Now, I can have a gentleman over and bid him adieu when I’m done with him. ”
I whip my head around, and she smiles innocently. Did she just say what I think she did?
“Do you need more condoms?” she asks. “Because I have a whole bunch at my place.”
The car swerves as a shockwave ripples through me. My grandma is having sex. Sweet, eighty-year-old Gram is sexually active.
I steady my hands on the wheel. “Y-you do?” My voice quivers, and I clear my throat.
“Oh, yes. They brought a whole bunch to our facility.”
“They?”
“That nice young man I was telling you about.” She flashes me a smug smile. “He came back this week, and I told him all about you. He was definitely interested.”
Oh, god. I can picture her cornering some poor nursing assistant and badgering him to go out with me. “Gram, we just talked about—”
“We talked about you not wanting a husband,” she says. “Not about someone wetting your whistle.”
Oh my god.
I pull into the designated visitor parking and help her out of the car.
“Just think about it,” she says as I walk her up the three steps to the main entrance of the brick building.
“Evening, Enid.” The jaunty security guard tips his hat at my grandmother, and she does a little curtsy in reply.
“Hello, Hank.”
She shuffles past him, and once we’re inside her apartment, I ask, “Gram, are you and Hank …”
“Oh, heavens no!” She shakes her head. “Hank is still happily married after all these years. He’s just an all-around sweetheart. But Joe …” She grins, handing me a picture of her and an older man with bushy eyebrows. They’re toasting red Solo cups as if they’re two co-eds at a college party.
“He looks nice,” I tell her.
“Don’t let the eyes fool you. He’s very naughty.”
Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew.
As if on cue, her phone buzzes. The enormous print on the screen says, Enid, U home yet?
“Oh, that’s him,” she says, ushering me toward the door. “Thank you for the ride, sweet pea. You take care.” She practically pushes me out of the apartment.
As haunting as it is to think about my grandmother getting plowed, it’s truly tragic that her love life is eons more fulfilling than mine. Not that it’s difficult—mine is utterly nonexistent.
Against my will, my thoughts turn to Alex, imagining him writing something similar.
February, you home?
“Stop it, June,” I mutter under my breath. I plod toward my car and head home, to my empty apartment and even emptier life.