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“I did not fly here on a private jet. After I left my unforgivable parents and walked away from that life, I made some changes. I live in a six-hundred-square-foot apartment now. After taking a world of shit from Jim and Jake and personally apologizing to the patients I abandoned during the worst times of their lives, I can humbly say that I am not the same John you remember.”
She narrowed her eyes at me, “That’s hard for me to believe,” she pulled the hem of my sleeve, “given you’re wearing one of your Armani T-shirts.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but it didn’t seem very practical to throw away my wardrobe and replace it with second-hand clothes if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“Why aren’t you eating?” she pressed.
“I don’t know,” I said, scared to death to be rude by stating I didn’t trust the food her friends and family had prepared.
“You don’t know?” she mocked, and I could see she was trying not to laugh at me.
Thankfully, I clocked some slices of watermelon. “Here, I’ll get a few pieces of these,” I said with a smile, then reached for the large bowl of chips, “and a couple of handfuls of these.” I hoped that if I distracted her, she wouldn’t keep pushing.
“Oh, my heavens. Would you take a look at this?” a woman not much older than Mickie said in the thickest accent I’d heard so far as she walked in from the backyard. “You have to try Aunt Myrtle’s Chili.” She reached past me, shoving me off to the side with the little child she carried on her hip with her left arm.
“Stef,” Mickie laughed, “this is John.”
“John,” she turned with a paper bowl nearly overflowing with slop that looked like hot, chunky dog food. “Aren’t you just a doll? Here,” she said, shoving the bowl at me, “eat this. You’ll love it. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Stef.” She took a can of cheese, shook it, and squeezed some nozzle, sending a worm of unnatural cheese all over the top of my chili. “Or, as all my friends and lovers like to call me, Mama Steffy.”
“Mama Steffy?” I said, watching Mickie cover her smile out of the corner of my eye.
“You heard me, sweet buns,” she gave me a sultry look. “I got that nickname after my last child was born. All my babies got different daddies, but you best hold your judgment,” she said, crumbling up Ritz crackers and sprinkling them over the top of the canned cheese worm, “it’s not because these men won’t commit.”
“No?” I said, not knowing what to say and most certainly not looking at her extremely pronounced cleavage and a pack of cigarettes parked in her bra strap.
“Hell no,” she snapped her fingers, and I prayed she was done garnishing the chili that I would’ve sooner died than eaten. “I’m the one who doesn’t want commitment,” she looked over at Mickie, pulling a piece of steak out of one of the many foiled dishes, “I just don’t want a man telling me what I can and can’t do. I like my independence.”
“Well, I suppose that’s their loss,” I said, scared that whatever I said might encourage her to continue this story.
“You’re damn right,” she smiled. “Listen, if you and Mickie can’t work things out, I’m a good time you’ll never forget,” she winked at me, giggled, and then walked out.
“She’s a character,” Mickie chuckled, “and she’s fucking with you.”
“Well, that goes without saying; look at this fucking bowl of chili.”
“I’m talking about her personal life,” Mickie teased, taking the bowl of chili from me and dumping it into a large trash can. “She’s married to one of my cousins. She may or may not know that you and I broke up because your wealthy family were assholes to me.”
“May or may not?”
“We were drinking moonshine last night, and it loosened my lips a bit when everyone asked why my ex-boyfriend was celebrating the Fourth with us.”
“You know what I find the most adorable about you?”
“That I threw away that disgusting bowl of chili she made for you?”
“No, it’s your cute way of being pissed off at me. Goddammit, I would’ve loved to see you moonshine drunk last night, talking shit about me with all of those people.”
“Oh, you would’ve had an earful,” she laughed.
“It tells me there’s a chance,” I said. “And I’m down to do anything to get it.”
“Even eat a bowl filled with Stef’s disgusting chili?”
“Yep,” I lied.
“Good, then I’ll recreate that dish for you right now,” she said, turning and, to my horror, working on overloading a bowl of that chili with canned cheese and Ritz crackers.
“Well, if it means I’ll be shitting hot lava for the next three days, then I guess it’s cheaper than a colonic.”
