Chapter 8 Ginger
Ginger
I’m so distracted by the man next to me, I swipe to answer my phone before fully checking the screen.
Shit.
I mentally kick my own ass for answering without looking at the caller ID first and paste a fake ass smile onto my face. If my mother detects even a hint of sadness or irritation in my voice, much less my face, she’ll latch onto it like a shark to blood in the water.
“Mom, hi,” I say, forcing brightness I do not feel into my voice. I wish my sister, Lexie, had never shown our mother how to FaceTime.
Even on a Saturday afternoon, she’s dressed to the nines. She’s got a large glass of red in her hand, and she’s perched on the blue settee on the lanai of her sprawling Florida Spanish-style house.
“Ginger,” she says, and I take in her perfectly starched blouse and dress slacks. “Are you putting on weight?”
Fuck my life.
“Nice to see you, too, Mom,” I mutter before flicking a glance at Hutch.
I wish I’d thought to grab my AirPods, but he doesn’t seem to be paying any attention to me, eyes focused on the road, lightly tapping out a rhythm on the steering wheel with his thumb. I settle for turning down the volume some, though the damage has already been done.
“I assume the boys have gone? I’ve been calling for days,” she pauses and peers at me questioningly, “where are you? Are you in a…vintage vehicle?”
I force myself to keep my expression passive. Honestly, I would have the same reaction if I were seeing her in this exact scenario, but something about how she says it makes me defensive—not just for me but for Hutch, too.
I glance over, and I swear his lips tip up a little at her question. “I’m with a…” What, exactly? We aren’t friends. I can’t exactly say I’m with the guy I let go down on me every chance I get. “Friend,” I eventually say, and Hutch huffs out a low chuckle.
It makes the dimple in his right cheek pop, and my stupid stomach gives a slutty little flutter. Traitor ass bitch.
She gasps. “Well, that’s brilliant! Is this a male friend?” Her eyebrow climbs her forehead like it’s got a mind of its own and her expression is skeptically hopeful.
“Yes, Mom.”
“Well, that’s fantastic, truly. It’s about time. Really, Ginger, you need to get out more. Sitting at home alone every weekend isn’t good for you,” she chides, and I want the ground to open up and swallow me whole.
God, how embarrassing.
“You work too much,” she sighs before barreling on, “but it’s good you’re out. Even better if it were a date. Is it a date?” she asks.
I groan quietly, and even if she doesn’t hear it, Hutch does. He glances at me, eyes narrowing faintly. Not in judgment but in recognition. Like a piece of a puzzle that only he can see just slid into place. I quickly avert my attention back to my phone. I’ve got bigger problems.
“No, Mom. It’s not a date.” I have zero desire to tell her I’m actually on a road trip and decide to keep things as vague as possible.
“Well, maybe you should put yourself back on the apps,” she says, acting as if she knows anything about dating in this day and age. If she did, she wouldn’t give me that advice. It’s a literal dumpster fire out there.
“Oh,” she exclaims, “that reminds me, there’s a new neighbor you should meet the next time you’re in town.
He’s fifty-six and a widower.” She says the word all giddy-like, as if the news should appeal to me.
“Very upstanding and very affluent. Rumor has it he’s got heart problems, but no one has been able to verify that yet. ”
“Oh wow, that’s too bad,” I say dryly.
My mother huffs out an exasperated breath. “Ginger, you don’t want to be single forever. He might be older, but you know what they say…”
No, I didn’t, in fact, know what they say…
It’s my turn to sigh. “I’m fine, Mom. I don’t have time to date.”
Having raised me to believe that I needed a man, my mother was sure my life would be better if I married well and early, preferably to someone well established with a boatload of money. Someone like my dad.
“You must make time, Ginger. You’re not getting any younger.” Her tone is patronizing and more than a little insulting as she prattles on, and now I really want the seat in this shit box to open up and swallow me whole.
“Speaking of, did you buy that eye cream I sent you the link for? I saw those pictures you posted of you and the boys last weekend and I think it would take care of the bags under your eyes. Patricia Livingston’s best friend’s sister has been using it for a month, and you wouldn’t believe the difference. She looks ten years younger!”
I slide my eyes closed briefly and give my head a small shake. I have no idea who Patricia Livingston or her best friend’s sister is, and I don’t really care. So I nod along and ignore the jab—like I do with all her others.
“How’s Dad?” I ask to steer the conversation away from the bags under my eyes and my lack of a love life. I do not need this right now. Especially with Hutch not so subtly eaves-dropping.
“Oh, you know your father; he’s golfing, having lunch daily at the club.” She launches into a story about a scandal at the country club involving a regular member and one of the tennis coaches, but I’m only half listening.
“I still can’t believe you agreed to let those boys go off by themselves for weeks. Poor dears are probably terrified.”
I force myself to speak evenly, through slightly gritted teeth, though it’s the last thing I want to do.
“They aren’t by themselves, Mom, and they aren’t terrified. They’re with Peter,” I say.
I can feel Hutch’s eyes on me, but I don’t look over. Turning my body in the seat, I angle away from Hutch, hoping that this will be a little less painful if he can’t see my face.
My mother has never approved of my ex-husband. It’s not that Peter is a bad guy, he’s not. And he’s a great dad, but my mother has always been hard to please.
When I left for California at eighteen—to which she’d been adamantly opposed—she’d assumed I would finish school and come back home, marry some rich, old dude, and start popping out babies.
Had I done that, my life in Florida would never have been my own, and I was determined to stay as far away from the life she wanted for me as possible.
Needless to say, she’d been ‘displeased’—her words—when I’d met and fallen in love with a broke college student. She even tried to talk me into taking back my maiden name after Peter and I split; she told me I was ridiculous for keeping his last name for the boys' sake.
But again, that was my mom. Any idea that wasn’t hers was ridiculous.
“Still, I don’t like it,” she continues.
Scrutinizing in almost everything she does, my mother has managed to criticize every decision I’ve made for as long as I can remember.
Sure, she slaps a pleasantry on it from time to time, so she doesn’t come off completely crass and condescending, but anyone who knows her knows that part is all for show.
It’s one of the reasons my father worked himself to death for most of their marriage, and the reason he spends ninety percent of his retired life on the golf course.
I press back into the bucket seat, rub my forehead with my fingers, and try to keep the irritation from my voice. “People take road trips, Mom. And kids fly all the time, too. It’s perfectly safe. They’ll be together and Peter will be with them the entire time.”
Statistically, they’ll be safer in the air than riding in the car around town, so my mother’s claims have no basis. I seriously don’t know why I argue with or try to explain myself to her; she’s never agreed with how I parent my boys.
“I don’t know why you don’t spend the time here with your father, sister, and me. But I’m sure you have your reasons.”
Rubbing my neck, I let out a sigh and ignore the fact that I’ve already left. “Mom, we’ve been over this. The house is too crowded with Lexie and the kids there. And I haven’t seen my friends in months.”
Honestly, I stay away from my parents and my sister because it’s easier that way.
My sister’s living the dream—white picket fence, two and a half kids (she’s due in September with another girl), and a ridiculously attentive husband who's always off on a business trip. Meanwhile, my parents are still putting on this fake show for their rich friends, which is complete bullshit. And me? I’m out here feeling more lost than ever.
I’m just floating out here on the sea of single, with two almost six-year-olds, a dog that only likes me half the time, and a drawer full of vibrators that would make Hugh Hefner blush. And I’m so fucking lonely.
“And we haven’t seen you or the boys in over a year. And you don’t even like the outdoors—”
“Mom, stop,” I say, ignoring the guilt trip. But her statement isn’t untrue. I haven’t seen any of my family since Christmas before last. I hate that conversations with my mom always leave me feeling like a fifteen-year-old with a messy bedroom.
While I hate to admit it, she’s not entirely wrong.
I love the water and the sun, and we have a backyard pool, but I’d rather spend my day lounging around it than at the beach getting sand in every available crevice of my body.
Mostly because I’m chasing two kids around instead of relaxing.
But spending a few weeks with Wren and Finn was what I wanted.
And the two times I’d been there hadn’t been bad.
It also didn’t hurt that I’d had my world rocked—twice—by the tatted-up recluse with a cock that should have its own zip code and a tongue that melts my insides. The one that happens to be glancing my way right now with a cocked brow and a knowing grin.
I hold no plans of that ever happening again, especially since he’s the male equivalent of Samantha Jones, but Montana has other perks, the best of which: I won’t be alone. Although I wish I were for this conversation.
Why do I let her get to me like this? It’s not as if I actually care what she thinks. But if that’s true, why do I suddenly feel fifteen again?
“Ginger, are you listening to me?”
My mother’s voice snaps me back to the conversation.
“Mom, sorry, I’m getting a call. I have to go.”
She sighs, and I roll my eyes. “Okay, but make sure you get some of that eye cream, okay? I think it’ll really help brighten up your features. Just because you’re closing in on forty doesn’t mean you have to look it.”
I cringe inwardly and nod. “Bye, Mom.”
I drop my phone into my lap and let out a sigh. Thankfully, the man next to me doesn’t speak. I don’t know if I could have a conversation without bursting into tears of embarrassment, even if I wanted to.