Good point.
“But she let him. I saw that. They were evenly matched, tongue for tongue,” Marie counters.
“Ewww, Mom!”
“What? Like you and Declan couldn’t see it? You don’t get close up views like that watching The Bachelor on an iPhone while maximizing the screen.”
I stop crying and stare at her.
“Not that I do that,” she mutters, shoving a rescue cookie in her own mouth.
“That was so unprofessional,” I say, chiding myself. “He’s a major client. I need to keep my tongue in my mouth.”
“And your hands off his ass,” Marie adds.
“And my—what? I did not touch his....oh., no.” A vague, yet remarkably visceral, memory of my hands scraping against the fine fabric of his trousers, the cashmere turning into butter as my fevered palms met his hot marble thighs and ass makes me pant.
Shannon’s frown is like a nonverbal tsk tsk tsk.
I guess I did take the opportunity to explore the, uh, terrain.
His spin trainer should be given a Nobel Prize for Sculpture.
My phone buzzes, jolting me. I look at my text messages.
“My mom,” I groan. As if the night couldn’t get any worse.
“Has Pam learned to say the words ‘toilet paper’ out loud yet?” Marie asks with a snort.
I sigh. “She can’t even say ‘menopause.’”
Marie goes quiet and eats another cookie, then mutters, “Can’t say I blame her.”
It’s 11:06 p.m. You said you would be home by eleven, the text reads.
You know where this is going, right? So do I.
I’m at Shannon’s place. I am fine. I am running late, I text back. But the text just says Sending, and doesn’t go through.
“Has she microchipped you yet?” Marie jokes. I look at her, all blonde and coiffed and smiling. Marie is the opposite of my mother in every way, from energy level to assertiveness, and while I know I should answer my mother’s worried missives, and I know she’s struggling tonight, I can’t. I just can’t. Andrew has tasted me, again, and that takes precedence.
Speaking of tastes, I reach for a rescue cookie. At this point, I need a rescue buffet. Where the hell is Declan with my Cheetos and marshmallows?
And...pause. Because I know, right? Cheetos and...marshmallows? Here’s the trick: you make rice cereal marshmallow treats. The kind with a box of rice cereal, a bag of marshmallows and a stick of butter, all mixed together and pressed in a greased pan.
Except instead of the rice cereal, insert crunchy Cheetos.
Unpause so you can marvel at the amazement that is this delicacy. I know! It’s like you’ve been living a culinary lie all these years.
You’re welcome.
Marie waves another cookie at me. “Earth to Amanda!” She points to the dining table. “Declan was just telling me that he loves the idea of a wedding cake in the shape of bagpipes.” On the table I see schematics of wedding cakes so complex they look like an architecture firm has designed blueprints for them, complete with pulleys and fire sprinkler systems.
Shannon gives me a look that says anything but. “No, Mom, he was saying the opposite.”
Marie inhales, the air whistling past her back teeth. “No, he didn’t! He said he’d love a cake made in the shape of bagpipes as much as he loves me.” She gives Shannon a doe-eyed look. “There’s only one way to interpret that comment.”
Shannon and I exchange a look and say, in unison, “Right.”
My phone buzzes again. I look.
Mom.
Please respond before I call 911, she texts.
Declan walks in just as I’m texting back the words, I am fine. Will be home late. This time, the text goes through. Whew.
He plunks the marshmallows and Cheetos on the counter. Shannon opens the refrigerator door, bends down, and searches for the butter.
Declan “bumps into” her from behind and bends over her, whispering something I imagine is quite dirty in her ear, given the Lauren Bacall laugh that emerges from her.
I watch them, my earlier beers fading, the taste of Andrew McCormick lingering on my tongue, the burn of his cheek etched into my palm.
Shannon gets it all. The awesome, charismatic mother. The billionaire fiancé.
A father.
I don’t even have that. Mine left when I was five.
The green cloud of jealousy that fills me feels like a smoke bomb, as if emotional terrorists appeared out of nowhere in a flash mob and pulled the pins, tossing the bombs like hail in a sudden storm cell.
I’m jealous. I can admit it. It’s not as if there’s something wrong with that. I can hold two opposite emotions in my heart at the same time. I am capable of feeling joy for Shannon and her new life and sorrow for my own trainwreck. Life doesn’t have to be either/or. It can be both/and.
As Declan nuzzles Shannon’s neck and touches her ass in ways that make me feel like I’m watching the opening to a Showtime after-hours special, I text my mom back with a single line:
In twenty minutes. On my way.
“I have to go,” I announce.
Marie’s face falls. Shannon and Declan are butting up against each other like horny goats in springtime. I’m seriously worried about how they’re both eyeing the stick of butter in her hand.
“But we were just about to look at the plaid gel nails for the bridesmaids!” Marie whines, holding up a full-color brochure from a local spa with—yep—plaid gel nail fills.
“You seriously want the bridesmaids to have fingernails that look like kilts?” I ask, knowing the answer.
“Everything will look like kilts!” Marie gushes. “I’ve even found plaid matching bra and thong sets for the bridesmaids. And a garter for Shannon.”