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“Don’t worry, I didn’t think you did,” he says dryly. He makes a big show of turning his attention back to the screen.
“Why are you watching the Stanley Cup game?” I ask him.
“As a form of penance. And so I can see where I went so horribly wrong.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong. In the game,” I add.
He rolls his eyes at me, but before he can shoot back a snarky reply, his phone rings. He pulls it from his pocket and answers it. “Oh, hi Mom.... Yeah, everything’s going great. How’s Dad?... Good, good.... I should able to make it home in a couple of weeks.” Suddenly, he leaps to his feet and hurries out of the room into the hallway. He lowers his voice, but I can still hear him. “No, I’m not bringing her with me. We’re not hanging out anymore. Why are you obsessed with her?”
Holy . . . Is he talking about me?
“Pax,” I yell, just to mess with him. “Hey, babe. Could you go into the kitchen and get me a beer?”
“Get your own beer,” he calls back. Then he’s talking on the phone again. “No, it’s not her... Okay, fine. Yes, it is. Why do you care?... Stop trying to hook me up. I’m a big boy; I can find my own—argh!”
This is making me smile.
“Hi, Mrs. Saul,” I shout so loud it rings off the rafters.
“I was not rude to her... Okay, fine, I’ll get her a beer.... Mom, you’re driving me crazy, you know? I mean, I love you, but seriously...”
He walks into the kitchen, still talking on the phone. I follow him in and call out, “Hi, Mrs. Saul, it was so nice to meet you at the game.”
Mrs. Saul says something. Pax groans aloud and shoots me a death glare.
“No, you can’t talk to her . . . Oh, for heaven’s sake . . .”
Pax holds out the phone.
I take it. “Mrs. Saul, how lovely to talk to you,” I chirp. She proceeds to quiz me about my life. She’s fascinated by the fact that I’m mentoring a kid. She is so happy for me that school is done for the year. I should definitely come to Texas sometime when I’m free. There’s a darling little boutique that she wants to take me to.
“Okay, that’s enough.” Pax grabs the phone from me and walks over to the fridge to get a beer. I smile as I listen to him grumble at his mother.
She sounds like such a sweetheart.
Standing there, Pax grins fiercely at me, shakes the beer violently, and then hands it to me. “Bye, Mom. Love you. Gotta go.” He hangs up and shoves his phone in his pocket. “There you are. Babe. Can I get you anything else? Some pizza with hemlock garnish?”
Why, that petty little . . .
I point the beer directly at him, snap the top off, and let it explode all over him in a fizzy wet spray. It splatters his face and neck and shirt, the marble kitchen counter, the gleaming white cabinets, and the floor.
“Hey,” he howls.
“Hay is for horses; hay is for cows; pigs would eat it, but they don’t know how,” I recite automatically.
“Hey.” My sister stalks into the room, and gestures at the mess I made. “Ruby Lou Who, I raised you better than that.”
“No, you didn’t,” I assure her.
“Ruby Lou Who?” Pax echoes.
“It’s an affectionate nickname, which you do not get to use,” I inform him loftily.
“Don’t worry, boo boo, we are not at the affectionate nickname stage of our relationship.”
I glare at him.
A towel hits me in the head.
