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Less than ten minutes later I’m showered. I open the bathroom door and scream. There’s a man standing in the hall in a pair of—please God why?—tightie-whities. I’d estimate him to be in his late thirties to mid-forties. He’s actually in decent shape, although there’s some graying and male pattern baldness. I’m also having a hard time keeping my eyes on his face, because he’s tenting the front of his underwear with some morning wood.
“What the shit?” I yell as he stands there, gawking. “Mom! There’s a mostly naked man in the hallway! Is he yours?”
She comes out of her bedroom in one of her satin robes. I try to hold in my gag, knowing she was probably getting the action I should have gotten last night. She runs her hand through her sex hair. “I thought you were staying at Sunny’s last night.”
“So he is yours.” I point at the silent man standing two feet away from me. He’s still flag poling, but he’s put his hands down to cover it. “Just checking to make sure some half-naked crazy pervert didn’t wander into our apartment with a hard-on.”
“Lily!”
“What? It’s true. And it’s happened before.”
“Mr. Van Winkle isn’t a pervert. He’s senile. He forgets where he lives sometimes.”
“Yeah, well, he also forgets to wear clothes.” Judging from what happens in his saggy underwear, Mr. Van Winkle was probably a hit with the ladies in his day. I turn sideways and slide by my mom’s date from last night. Thankfully, I’m skinny enough that I don’t have to touch him, since he seems incapable of moving out of the way.
I lock my door and throw on a pair of leggings and a hoodie. I stuff a bathing suit into my knapsack and my clean skating gear, since I have lessons to teach this evening. I’m banking on Sunny being able to drive me to the rink. My phone beeps as I’m running a brush through my hair. It’s Sunny letting me know she’s here. She knows enough not to come up unless I invite her. My mom’s chatty. She can keep us here for hours with tea and lectures about men. Although that’s not likely to happen today, what with her man friend.
I open the door a crack and peek my head out. The hall is empty. I tiptoe down it, shove my feet into ballet flats, lift my keys from the hook, and open the door.
“Going to Sunny’s and then work. Be back later!” I let the door close behind me before my mom can stop me with requests for groceries.
Sunny’s waiting out in front of my building in her Prius. It was a birthday present from her brother. I don’t have my own car. Public transit and my bike are my rides of choice. Guelph isn’t big, and I don’t live too far from work. Plus, cars are expensive; the one my mom and I share is constantly in need of repair.
I slip into the passenger seat and wait until Sunny pulls into traffic before I check my ringing phone.
She glances at me and then back at the road, her hands at ten and two like they’re supposed to be. The GPS is tracking our drive, even though she’s been to the apartment at least two thousand times. Sunny’s directionally challenged. And she’s very diligent about following road rules.
“Who’s calling you? Randy? What happened in that bathroom?”
“It’s my mom. She probably wants to give me a list of things to bring home. I don’t know why she doesn’t text.” I let the call go to voice mail and shove it back in my bag. “So, get this, my mom brought home her date.”
“Last night? Did you meet him?”
“I did this morning.”
“No!” Sunny’s eyes go wide.
“Yup. He was wearing tightie-whities and showing off his hard-on.”
“Oh my God!” Sunny’s mortification matches my own.
“So classy, right? Anyway, my mom thought I was at your place, so I guess she figured it would be safe.”
“I’m sorry, Lily.”
I shrug and make a joke out of it. “I guess the good thing is, there’s a low probability that I’ll ever see him again.”
Sunny doesn’t get what it’s like to live in a house with a revolving door of boyfriends. Her parents have been together forever.
I have no idea if my dad was the first professional athlete my mom scored with, but he was the one who got her pregnant. So since then, as long as the guy doesn’t play hockey, he’s fair game. I think it’s kind of insane, because any guy can be a deadbeat, not just hockey players. Still, if I ever came home with a hockey-stick-toting boy, I’d hear about it. Hence the reason my mother will never know about my romp with Randy.
“How was the rest of your night?” I ask Sunny after she doesn’t respond. I mean really, what is there to say? “The event went so well. Miller did great. How was Michael feeling by the end?” It’s definitely not a subtle change of topic, but Sunny doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe she doesn’t want me to dwell on the unfortunate visual of my mom’s date’s man rod.
