“I put some vodka in there for you, girlie.” Granny Mavis pats me on the hip.
Shoot. I deserve this. I knock it back. It’s foul and tastes like cat pee, but the warm fuzzies leach into my bones.
Nathan who?
McCarthy say what?
Don’t know, don’t care, can’t even spell his name.
My mother shrieking and kneeling in front of me to put her hands on my uterus?
“Keep ’em coming,” I say to my great-grandmother with a slur.
“It’s a new moon,” my mom sings as my glass is refilled. She’s hazy in my drunken vision. “Edwina laid two eggs. It’s a sign!” My mother is ecstatic. “You’re with child! I readthe tea leaves.” Pressing her hands to my midsection, she continues. “I had a dream that my granddaughter’s name would be Driftwood.”
“I don’t think Nathan’s going to go for that.” Granny Mavis snickers into her mead cup.
“I’m not pregnant!” I shriek.
Great-Granny Mavis thumps her cane. “She was inspired by that hot young thing you brought by the other day. Shoot, I feel like I’m ovulating. Told Zephyr to buy me some tampons.”
“The cards are usually right. I read them too. There was a baby,” Crocus says, with her white hair hanging down her bare back—and yeah, she unfortunately is not wearing clothes, though if I look like her when I’m her age, I’ll call it a win.
“I need another glass,” I mumble, my mouth feeling like honey-laced cotton. I wipe at my mouth with the back of my hand.
“I think,” Zephyr says gently to my mom, “maybe we can change the subject to something less emotionally loaded for Jenna? She’s had a long day.”
“A long day?” Willow cups my face. “I’m an empath, Jenna. You can talk to me.”
“I’m fine, just tired.”
“Your heart is broken,” my mom declares. “Nathan is no more.”
The mead threatens to come back up.
“You finally offed the bastard. Good girl. He had it coming, if you ask me.” Granny Mavis dusts off her hands. “I’ll take the fall for the murder. Tell me where he’s buried so I can put my DNA on the body. Hell, I’m old. I’m going to croak before the state can fight my appeals.”
“No, Granny, he’s fine. He’s alive, I mean. He’s not fine—he lost his job, he broke up with me, there’s another woman…” The alcohol lets the tears flow. I sob at my mom’s rough-hewn kitchen table. “She’s pregnant. And pretty.”
“I knew the goddess didn’t forsake me.” My mother is pleased. “I am gifted.”
“You’re not going to try and be that affair baby’s godmother or something crazy, are you?” I demand.
“It takes a village. I am a licensed birth doula.”
“Mom!”
“I think Willow just means that she’s still able to read the tarot cards,” Zephyr says reassuringly, sliding a plate of warm mushroom, wild-onion, and goat-cheese crostini in front of me.
“My life sucks,” I groan.
“Have some more mead.”
“No, have something stronger.”
Granny Mavis tips what smells like moonshine in my pewter mead mug.
“After this—” I hiccup, swaying in my chair. “I am going to look for a new boyfriend who has a house like it’s a full-time job.”
