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“Uh, sure?” I’m hit by an odd sense of foreboding.
“My boy plays hockey in Chicago.” Rod’s grin grows even wider as he looks over my shoulder. “And you’re wearing his name on your back.”DARREN
I typically sleep on the flight home, but this time all I can do is tap on the armrest and count down the minutes until we land.
My worries revolve around Charlene. After the picture and caption, I fired back a message telling her not to talk to them. I tried to follow it up with a phone call, but it went right to voicemail. In my panic, I made some irrational demands, to which she responded that this certainly wasn’t a phone conversation, let alone one to be had over text messages.
I honestly never thought there would be a reason to tell her about my birth parents since they had almost no hand in raising me.
I go directly to her place from the airport, even though it’s unlikely that she’s home from work so we can have a discussion. The Uber drops me off in front of her house. I have my hockey gear with me, which is somewhat inconvenient, but I didn’t want to stop at home first. Charlene’s car is missing from her driveway, and in its place is a mini red Winnebago hooked up to a small SUV.
The Winnebago is a shock, mostly because Charlene has a thing about RVs, regardless of size. I know this because once on our way to Alex’s cottage we stopped at a gas station and she nearly had a panic attack when one pulled into the bay next to us. She refused to let me get out of the car until it left.
When I tried to pry more information out of her, she mumbled something about where she grew up and how she associated RVs with bad men. At that point I knew little about her upbringing, but I’d never seen her in such a state of panic.
So seeing this Winnebago in her driveway brings up all sorts of questions. Ones I’d like some answers to. I run my sweaty hands down my thighs and gather myself before I finally ring the bell. When it swings open, I’m face to face with a woman dressed in a black leather corset and a pair of heels that could double as murder weapons.
She slides her hand up the doorframe and the other one goes to her hip, which she juts out. Her brow arches and a grin forms on her wine red lips. “Well, hello there. If you’re trying to get me to go to your church, I’m afraid I’m far too sinful for that. Would you like a demonstration?”
I look down at myself. I’m wearing dress pants and a button-down shirt. I suppose I can see how she might mistake me for a church type, but…did she just proposition me? I slip my hands in my pockets and glance over her shoulder, trying to see past her, but she takes up most of the doorway.
“I’ll have to pass on that. I’m here to see Charlene.”
Her smile falters as she inspects me in a new way. “Oh? Is that right? And who might you be?”
“I’m . . . uh . . . her boyfriend?” For some reason it comes out as a question.
“Oh! Yes, of course! Char-char can be so secretive about stuff like that.” She gives me a conspiratorial wink.
Char-char? “I guess?”
She motions for me to come inside. “She should be home soon. Would you like to come in?”
“Sure. Thank you.” When I enter the kitchen, I freeze. The counter is covered in sex toys. More specifically, the kind I typically find in Charlene’s I thought I might like it but I changed my mind trunk. What the hell is going on here? “May I ask how you know Charlene?”
“I’m so sorry. I’m so distracted. I haven’t even introduced myself properly. I’m Whensday, Char-char’s mother.” She extends a hand.
“Oh! I didn’t realize you were visiting Charlene. It’s nice to meet you.”
I’d tell her mom I’ve heard a lot about her, but the truth is, I haven’t. I know the basics. That she’s a Dominatrix, and has been since Charlene was a teenager. Before that they lived in a rural community, and Charlene’s father wasn’t a good man, so they left. Aside from those details, I know little about Charlene’s family or her early life. Neither of us is particularly keen to talk about our childhoods, so we don’t.
“It’s always nice to meet Char-char’s friends. A mother worries, you know.”
“I’m sure you do.”
I agree even though I wouldn’t know what that’s like. My parents gave zero fucks about me. I’m fairly certain that hasn’t changed in the past decade. And my grandparents, who did raise me, are about as warm as ice.
