Harlowe #2
“My grandson said he can have ice cream and cookies. Should I be the good nana and give him the junk food, or would that spoil his appetite if you have something planned for dinner?” Mom asks, finding me still sitting on the floor in the garage entry. “Oh, Lolo. Why are you on the floor?”
I look up at her and grimace. She sits next to me, stretching out her legs with a groan that belies her age, but not her health. She’s spry and exercises more than I do.
“The guy I’m friendly with just ended a weird conversation abruptly. Something I said about skeletons in the closet spooked him, I think. It just feels like a shitty way to end an already bad day.”
“Are you talking about the argument you had with that sharply dressed man in your driveway earlier?”
I slowly roll my head against the wall to look at her. “Were you eavesdropping on me, Mom?”
She avoids my stare and smiles crookedly. “No need to eavesdrop. I think the neighbors heard you shouting at each other. I was just watching to see if you needed backup, but you had him covered just fine, my little tiger. Want to talk about it?”
“How much did you hear, exactly?” I swear to God, if the neighbors start ratting me out to the gossip rags, I’m going to burn down their houses. Try being nosy without your lace curtains to peel back, Mrs. Brady!
“Most of it. Is he—?” She waves her hand toward the living room, where I hear the strains of a Marvel movie beginning.
I hang my head in defeat. If she could put that much together, it’s no stretch to think everyone else will, too. “Yes,” I admit quietly. “That was Zander Olsen. Have you heard of him?”
“Of course I have. I’m not living under a rock. I live in the same city and I follow your career and what’s written about you, good and bad.”
“You do?” The shocked tone in my voice makes her scowl, the little lines by her eyes deepening.
“I started a long time ago, so I’d know where you were modeling. Then it just became a habit to keep tabs on what was said about you in case I needed to burn someone’s house down.” Ahh, so that’s where I get it from.
“He would never have known about Hendricks if that dumb gossip site, The Atlanta Haute List, hadn’t linked us,” I gripe, tossing my keys from hand to hand with a jingle.
“You wouldn’t have told him, eventually?”
“Not if I could help it. He didn’t want anything to do with me after our trip. Why would he want to know about his child?” I say, pulling my legs under me to stand and holding out a hand for Mom.
She takes the offered help and rises, following me into the house and to my sanctuary, the kitchen.
“How do you know what he would want if you didn’t give him all the information? We hardly know how we will react to new situations. We can’t begin to untangle anyone else’s actions.”
I pull items from the fridge and pantry so I can create Hendricks’s favorite snack board for movie watching. “I did what I thought was best.”
“You were angry, Lolo. I could feel your anger for months when you came home. And so sad. Your sadness filled this home and pushed out any hope for a better outcome than what you had settled on.” She puts a bag of popcorn into the microwave as I arrange goldfish crackers and grapes into a pattern on a wooden tray with peanut butter cups and blue M&M’s.
Hendricks refuses to eat the other colors, even though they all taste like chocolate to me.
“Are you saying I should have shown up, Hendricks in my arms, and demanded he see his son? I’m pretty sure I would have been arrested and Hendricks taken from me.
” My voice drops low and I feel the cold trickle of fear that has followed me around since I brought my son into this world of what the Olsen family could do to me or Hendricks.
“It seems like he’s interested now. What’s stopping you from letting him know his boy?”
“You don’t understand what kind of man Zander Olsen is,” I say in warning.
“Is he a bad man? Did he hurt you, or try to take your life away? No, he gave you a beautiful son who is so sweet and pure.”
“He’s a liar, and he only cares about himself.”
“Then why was he outside demanding to know his son? A man who only cares about himself wouldn't have shown up today. He wouldn't have made the effort to come up against you. You’re an warrior. You terrify men.”
“Hey!” I protest. She gives me a knowing look and I feel my indignation deflate.
“You’re intimidating. You’re tall and beautiful, with a sharp tongue and a fast mind.
Men don't stand a chance when you decide to break them down.” She pulls the popcorn out of the microwave and empties it into a bowl before she continues in a softer tone.
“That man didn’t crumble, Lolo. He took your viciousness and still asked for what he wanted.
That tells me he’s thinking of something more than himself.
He’s thinking of his future, and what he’s contributed to this life that will succeed him.
That’s more than many single moms can ask for. ”
“Great. It was easy enough to ignore when it was just Alicia, but if you’re team Zander now, what am I supposed to do?
” My manager had worn me down and gotten the truth out of me, as well.
She’s been fully on board with a plan to push me back into Zander’s orbit, thinking it will be good for my book sales and the possibility of a cooking show.
“Does Alicia want a son-in-law? Because I do, and you won't even introduce me to the man you’re friendly with, as you say.”
“Whoa,” I say, holding up a hand to stop her. “We’re not talking marriage here, just introducing him to Hendricks. Slow down, Mom, you’re getting way ahead of yourself.”
“I’m not getting any younger, and neither are you. Thirty this year and not married. Old maid,” she says, grabbing the snack board and the popcorn bowl before moving into the living room to sit with Hendricks.
“Cold-hearted old lady,” I murmur in affection.
I look at the bags of snacks, wrappers, and crumbs left on the island, which gets awesome natural light in the afternoons, perfect for shooting photos of my recipes for my socials and videos.
Today, I could grab a photo of this for another impromptu post. I unzip my jacket and grab my phone before I can think twice.
I bend over backward onto the island, lying among the snack bags and decadent treats with one arm above my head, tank top straining to keep my ample tits contained, and snap a selfie of me facing into a slant of sunshine cutting across the marble and snack debris.
I stand back up and brush crumbs off my shoulders while I check the photo, which definitely caught the intended image I’d hoped for.
My ordinary brown eyes look like rich chocolate pools, my skin like burnished caramel glowing in the sunshine as golden-wrapped peanut butter cups, orange goldfish crackers, green and red grapes, and colorful M&M’s are haloed around me in a foodie dream.
I open Instagram and post my latest thirst trap and caption it, feeling like a snack, who’s hungry, before posting and exiting like the sly she-devil I am.