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Pretty much the opposite of every man you’ve ever dated. Add in the fact that Stella is right—he’s a legit thirst trap—and it’s almost as if Ryan Miller is a certified catch…
I shake my head and force myself to focus on the task at hand—getting my broken-ass mom out of the house.
“Grab your suit, Ms. Juicy!” I announce toward the living room, where my mom now sits on the couch, visibly pouting. I hand her phone back and verbally add the cherry on top of the hot fudge pool sundae. “Your boyfriend Sal is allowed to come to the pool with you. We’re leaving in thirty minutes!”
Sad face instantly gone; I don’t have to tell Stella twice.
I slip my favorite sunglasses over my eyes and offer a helping hand to Sal and Stella as they slowly get out of the back seat of the cart. Once I’m confident their feet are safely on the pavement, I toss my backpack over my shoulder and grin up toward the sky. Surrounded by bright and breathtaking blue, the sun shines like a beacon.
If there’s one good thing about being in Florida, it’s enjoying summerlike, jean-short-wearing weather in September. By this time of year in Vail, the temperatures are already starting to descend. Now, even though cold weather equates to me enjoying my favorite thing in the whole world—skiing—I can’t deny a little extra warmth and sun aren’t a bad thing.
“You ready, darlin’?” Sal asks and takes my mother’s arm into his.
“You know it, tiger.” My mother punctuates her statement with what I swear is a throaty growl, and I try really hard not to be annoyed by this newfound love of hers.
After I picked up her Mr. Casanova in the four-seater golf cart that spends most of its time in the garage, I chauffeured the two lovebirds the short drive to the Sunny Creek pool and tried to ignore their flirty banter and my mom’s incessant giggles.
Frankly, I feel like I’ve entered an alternate dimension, one where my mother’s love life is more happening than my own, but whatever. Today’s priorities don’t revolve around having an early midlife crisis about my singledom status. A status that, up until this moment right here, I’ve been really fucking proud of, mind you.
My sole goal is to get Sal’s and Stella’s asses into the pool so I can stretch out on a lounge chair, attempt to get a tan, and take a fucking nap that isn’t interrupted by the Bee Gees.
The instant we step through the black metal gates that lead into the pool area, I’m shocked by not only the size of the pool, but also the number of residents milling about the premises.
Holy early risers, this place is hopping for a weekday. It’s like last call at the club, only instead of trying to get the bartender’s attention for that final beer, these bathing-suit-clad seniors are fixated on finding empty lounge chairs and putting on copious amounts of sunscreen.
“Carly!” my mom shouts at the top of her lungs, startling the crap out of me. “Oh my God! Look!”
“What? What’s wrong?” I question, holding a hand to my chest to slow my racing heart and glancing around the pool for the fire.
“Over there!” she exclaims and shoves her beach bag into my chest. “Hurry!”
“What?” I question again, still looking around manically for the murder that must be happening right now. Or, you know, the fucking emergency that would call for this kind of loud, amped-up reaction.
“Three empty chairs!” she urges. “Over there! You need to grab them before someone else does!” When I don’t move right away, she continues with a hand to her hip and big, persistent eyes directed at me. “Carly! The chairs! Run!”
“Run?” I question and look at Sal.
“With Stell’s busted ass and my hurt balls, we’re a little slow, darlin’.” He shrugs, and I have to steel my facial expression into neutrality so I don’t cringe over the fact that the man my mother is apparently in love with is talking to me about his balls. “And, if I’m being honest,” he continues, his voice switching to conspiratorial. “You’re the youngest person inside this joint. So, why don’t you do us a favor and use it to our advantage before Nan over there in the electric scooter tries to claim those chairs first?”
I look to my right to see a woman who appears to be in her late sixties, early seventies, tops, on a red scooter. A visor sits on her head. Those big, thick BluBlocker sunglasses cover her eyes. And with her all-black attire, she looks like the Wicked Witch of the West heading for Dorothy, only in slow-fucking-motion.
“Carly!” my mom urges again, and I shut my eyes for the briefest of moments.
Seriously? Why is this my life now?
But then, it doesn’t take long for me to remind myself that I need a lounge chair to fulfill my nap needs. So, I do what any thirtysomething-year-old woman temporarily living in a senior retirement village would do—I run.
