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“Mom has a copy.” Olive looks up at me. “Don’t watch it with her, though. She knows it word for word and then says it under her breath. It’s soooo annoying.”
I blush as Max’s gaze fixes on my face. He doesn’t break eye contact as he says, “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“So, back to the raccoons.” Olive places both palms on the table, like she’s offering a business proposal. “They helped out Uncle Cam.”
“Oh?” Max asks, looking to Cam.
“Martini, please don’t tell that story,” Cam says, his forehead in his hands.
“Martini?” Max asks with a wide look, the blood draining from my face.
“Yeah, that’s what my family calls me. Except Mom. She doesn’t like it.”
“I started it.” Cam points to his chest with pride.
I cover my face. I told Max my dream of being a fancy lady, drinking martinis after a busy day in a big city, and he started calling me that on our second-to-last day together. The nickname “Martini” stuck for Olive, and it’s haunted me since Cam started calling her that when she was three.
“Mom, you’re like bright red.”
“I know, sweetie,” I say, smiling, but inside I want to die. “You know I don’t like it.”
“I like it.” Max catches my gaze from across the table, and he holds it, his lips pressed together. I wonder if he’s thinking of him muttering “Martini” into my ear when he was inside of me, when, unbeknownst to us, we were creating our daughter.
“Thank you,” Cam says, smacking Max on the arm. “It’s a great nickname.”
“Can I call you Martini?” Max asks Olive, but his gaze stays on me. I can’t handle this. His stare always makes me dissolve into a puddle. He can’t be thinking about the sex. The awkward, condom-slipping sex that created a human being. I look away first, and my brother catches our look, his eyebrow flicked.
Olive shrugs a single shoulder. “Sure. Even though you’re not family. Mom, I’m not being rude, I’m just asking. Why am I meeting you, Max?”
Cam cocks his eyebrow higher. I grit my teeth at my brother while Max smirks, but I see the discomfort in his hunched shoulders.
“Your mother and I are old friends, and we’re catching up. She’s told me so much about you that I wanted to meet you.”
“It’s because you’re fabulous, Martini,” Cam adds, layering over this deflection like it’s buttercream frosting.
“Yes,” she says, flipping her hair. My cheeks bloom with embarrassment. I have raised a confident but vain child.
“I would love to hear this raccoon story,” Max says. The way these men swerve Olive away from her razor-sharp instincts make my heart glow.
“Uncle Cam, can I tell the story?”
“Fine,” Cam says, covering his face.
“So, Uncle Cam used to live at the tiny house.”
“The one I’m staying at?” Max asks.
“He’s staying at the tiny house?” Cam mutters to me with clenched teeth. I wave it off.
“Yes. Why are you staying there, anyway?” Olive asks.
“The hotel in town is full, sweetie. He’s a friend and wanted to visit,” I say, pulling her to me. She wiggles out of my grasp. Cam stares at me, because we both know Olive is really close to firing questions at Max. Being suspicious of adults is part of her precociousness.
“Okay,” Olive says. “So, Aunt Annie was over, and Annie’s former lover and Cam’s former lover…”
Add another tally mark to the Worst Mother column. Olive might as well be smoking a cigarette and have a tattoo with the rate I’m going.
“Hold on. Where did you hear that word?” I ask.
