“Mom, Dad,” I say. “This is Margie Flynn. She’s staying with me for a while.”
“Are you Nathan and Holly’s daughter?” my dad asks. Before she can answer, he says, “I play golf with Nathan.”
“I am their daughter,” Margie replies.
“Why are you staying with Allie?” my mom wants to know. “Aren’t you still in high school, dear?”
Poor Margie looks like she, too, is about to expire on the spot. “I am, but my parents are kind of mad at me right now.”
My mother feels the need to tell her, “That may be, but they’re still your parents. You belong at home.”
“I’m pregnant,” Margie tells them. “They don’t approve, and they don’t want anything to do with me or my baby.”
My mother is completely unaware that the whole world isn’t interested in her opinion, so she demands, “How could they approve? You’re just a child!”
“This is none of your business, Mom,” I tell her. “You need to stay out of it.”
“Not my business?” Her hand flies over her chest so dramatically, you’d think she was starring in an old silent film. “Youare my business.”
“I’m an adult,” I tell her firmly.
“You are stillmychild.” Her posture is one of righteous indignation.
This whole scene is so utterly ridiculous I almost start laughing. Instead, I turn to Finley and ask, “Do you want to meet for coffee tomorrow?”
“I’d love that!” She claps her hands together enthusiastically.
“Iwant to have coffee tomorrow,” my mom says. “I want to find out what in the world is going on with you!”
“I’ll text you, Mom,” I tell her. “Maybe we can get together for Sunday dinner.” I point at her while making a zigzag pattern through the air. “But you’ll have to wear clothes.”
“Don’t be rude,” she replies before remembering there’s a young girl in the room. Pulling the neckline of her dress up, she tells Margie, “You should join us on Sunday, dear. We’d like to hear more about why you’re staying with our daughter.”
I’m about to save Margie by declining for her, but before I can, she responds, “I’d like that.”
She would? Why?But I don’t ask. Instead, I shoo her out the door while telling Finley, “I’ll text you in the morning.”
Then I look at my parents and beg, “Please stop doing this.Please.”
The looks on their faces say it all. They are not going to stop. My only hope is that they will at least stop allowing Finley to display their pictures. In fact, I’m going to talk to my new friend about that tomorrow.
Meanwhile, Margie and I walk back to my apartment quietly. Once we’re in my kitchen, I ask, “Where’s the delivery?”
She points to a large vase of flowers sitting on the coffee table in the living room. “They were outside the front door, so someone had to bring them up.”
I’m guessing it was Faith or Teddy. Walking over to the gorgeous autumn display of dahlias and mums, I retrieve a small envelope out of the arrangement. No one has sent me flowers in a very long time, so I can’t imagine who would be doing so now.
Pulling out the card, I read:
Allie,
Thinking of you today on what would have been our seventh wedding anniversary. I’m very sorry about the way our marriage ended.
Love Always,
Brett
I rip the card in two, and then two again before opening the window and throwing the remnants into the wind like hostile confetti. So many questions fly through my head. Questions like, how did I forget today would have been my anniversary? Why in the world would Brett remember and why did he want to commemorate it? And finally, how did he find me?
