Page 50 of The Do-Over

“Coming,” we both shouted back, although neither of us moved.

Finally, Phee rose and smoothed a hand down her waist. “Do I look okay? I was doing an interview for a story I’m working on and forgot to bring a Mother-Approved Outfit to put on after.”

I stood with a hum of concern. “You know what Mom says about jeans. They’re only for farmers and…”

“…soccer moms who’ve given up.”

“But I think you look great. Very comfortable.” Unlike me and these damn Spanx. “Maybe she won’t notice.”

Phee snorted and hooked her arm through mine. “You always were the optimistic one.”

TWENTY

“Drinkin’ your sorrows away

only works till the beer runs out.”

—MIMI

On my mother’s list of Favorite Sayings, number three was, “I might lose the battle, but I always win the war.” Clearly, she had declared war on me. This was the reason I found myself sitting around the dinner table with my family and Brent.

When he’d arrived, a victorious light shone in Mom’s eyes, and I realized I’d been lulled into a false sense of security. “I hope you don’t mind.”

What could I say? I hid in the bathroom and texted Mathias.

Me: Please save me. Mom invited Brent. BRENT IS HERE.

Unfortunately, Mathias did not come to my rescue, nor did I contract bubonic plague and subsequently die.

A knock on the door jarred me. “Someone’s in here. Be right out.”

“It’s me, sugar. Open up.”

I yanked it open, and Mimi slipped inside. She plopped down on the lid of the toilet. “You hiding?”

“Why would she do this? Why would she invite Brent?”

“You know your mama. She has to be in everyone’s business. Like that as a kid too. Bossy and too smart for her own good. Always thought she could solve the world’s problems. You know, she ran for class president her senior year in high school because she actually wanted to make positive changes to the school? Had this speech she wrote and rewrote and practiced a hundred times until it was perfect.”

“Did she win?”

“’Course not. The kid whose older brother bought the beer for all the parties did.” Mimi dug around in her purse and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “I will say this about Bobbie Jo, she always could pick herself back up and find a new cause.” She stood, climbed on the toilet, and opened the tiny window above it. A whoosh of cool air followed. The lighter flickered red as she lit a cigarette.

“I just wish I weren’t one of her causes.” I crossed my arms. “And you are not supposed to be smoking.”

She pointed the glowing end of the cigarette at me. “Now, it’s just the one. And lower your voice. If your mama hears, there’ll be no end to her nagging.”

Slumping against the door, I slid to the floor, a feat of epic proportions considering half of my body was wrapped tighter than a mummy in those Spanx. “I don’t need her to fix my life. My life is fine.”

Mimi dangled her smoking hand out the window and leaned over enough to catch her reflection in the mirror. I tensed at her balancing act, ready for her to fall and break a hip. “You might think that, but your mother doesn’t. Mamas want their chickadees settled. Most of us let them find their own way, maybe with a little proddin’. But your mama wants it done her way.”

“I can’t sit through an entire meal with Brent and Joel Allen and my mother.” My stomach clenched at the thought. Maybe I did have the plague. One could only hope.

Mimi took a drag of her cigarette and frowned. “Time to use that backbone, Perci Mayfield. I swear, you are right on the edge of starting to live your life. I might have to shove you off.”

I rested my chin on my knees. “I don’t want to go back out there.”

“Too late for that. If I had to miss bingo night at Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow with that hottie bingo caller—”