“Esme. There is nothing going on between us. We’ve struck a truce. He’s visiting because he’s in need of a change of scenery for the book he’s writing. He’s coming over for dinner. Can you chill out, please?”
“Why would I be able to chill out? What kind of role model for chilling out have I ever had in my life?”
Jack had to stifle a chuckle. Esme was funny. Like her mom.
“We’re watchingThe Last of Us. That’s the point. Dinner is incidental. It’s incidental dinner, not date dinner.”
“You’re watching a scary show together. I don’t know, Mom, sounds like the perfect opportunity to get cozy on the couch.”
He thought of last night, when she’d moved closer to him to show him her phone. He thought of his dismay when she moved back. He thought of his own subsequent migration.
Which meant he was thinking about her thigh. Again.
“Am I going to have to hang up on you?” Blair asked.
“What are you making?”
“Just grits I’m throwing rotisserie chicken on top of.”
“Oh, OK then. That’s not a date meal.”
“Thankyou. But also, I don’t know why it wouldn’t, theoretically, in a different circumstance with a different person, be a date meal. Mimi’s grits are legendary.”
“They’re great, but they’re grits. A bowl of slop. Not date food.”
This was ridiculous. He had to stop eavesdropping. He had been paused with the sliding door still open, so he closed it hard, making as much noise as possible, and called, “Hello?”
“Jack, hi, come on in.”
“Do I need to do anything to lock this door other than close it?” He should have asked yesterday. He’d observed how seriously she took making sure the exterior gates were secure.
“It locks automatically, but you could slide the dead bolt over, too.”
When he made it to the kitchen, she beckoned him over to where she had her phone resting against a serving bowl. “Come meet my daughter.”
He came to stand next to her and peered at the phone, on which appeared a younger clone of Blair, except with her hair in two long braids à la Pippi Longstocking.
“So you’re the famous author.”
“So you’re the famous daughter.”
She grinned. “You’re watching TV with my mom. You must have passed the test.”
“I didn’t know there was a test.” He swung around to look at Blair, who was on her way into the mudroom. “Have I passed the test?”
“You have passed the test,” she called. She was checking to make sure he’d locked the door. “You passed last night.”
“What’s the test?”
“My mom can’t stand it when people talk during TV shows or movies,” Esme said. “She’s broken up with friends over it.”
“I have not!” Blair protested as she reentered the kitchen. “I’ve just changed the parameters of certain friendships to be more focused on things other than the joint consumption of screened entertainment.”
“Back when you had friends,” Esme said.
Blair stiffened and said, “I have friends.”
“You never hang out with them anymore. You never go out. It’s like you’re hiding at home. Is it because you think people are judging you for the divorce?”
