Page 9 of A Really Bad Idea

Her lips pucker like she’s talking to a puppy. “But your crow’s-feet are starting to show. I have a serum for that.”

I smile. “It’s so nice to see you, Mom.”

Her fingers move back down my arms until they’re at my hands. She tightly holds them and continues to appraise me while grinning at me with admiration and love. It’s a peculiar thing about my mom. She can look at you with a tender smile, but her eyes are investigating your inner soul.

“Tell me, have you been seeing anyone?” she asks with sincere interest.

“Not since we spoke the other day.”

She walks to her purse, which is sitting on the granite island in the center of the kitchen, pulls out a brochure, and hands it to me. A picture of a woman holding an egg timer on the front makes me want to laugh, but I get the feeling I’m not going to like where this is going.

I read the title in bold blue font, “Affordable egg freezing?” I’m half-asking, half-comprehending what this piece of paper is doing in my mother’s bag.

“Your fertility decreases at age thirty-two, and by thirty-five, well, you might as well play Russian roulette. Lois, from the club, her daughter did it and says it tremendously freed up her mind. It’s nice to keep your options open.”

“By freezing them in”—I look down at the address on the front of the brochure—“Hoboken?”

“You can do it anywhere you want. I did some research. There’s a fantastic doctor at St. Xavier Fertility Center, and they’re doing all kinds of innovative things for girls your age.”

Peering over Mom’s shoulder, I catch Beth’s shocked expression before she goes back to pretending to look for something in her cabinets. I drop the brochure onto the kitchen island and look back at my mother with a forced smile on my face.

“Duly noted.”

“Meadow—”

“Are you hungry? ’Cause I’m starving.”

Desperate to drop the conversation, I grab a carrot from the vegetable platter on the counter and shove it in my mouth. Nothing brings your mood down quite like your mother whipping out a brochure on harvesting your eggs.

Grabbing me by the elbow, Mom escorts me outside onto the back deck. It’s a sunny day with a slight chill in the air. My knee-high boots are keeping my legs nice and warm over my jeans, but I rub the side of my arms as the crisp air weaves through my cable-knit sweater.

“There’s my Meadowlark.” Dad comes up from behind and gives me a giant bear hug.

I swing around and return his affection, breathing in the familiar scent of cigar smoke that is lingering on his shirt. My brother, Brian, is standing by his side. I give him a closed-mouth smile from the comfort of my father’s embrace.

I lean back and look up at my dad with raised brows. “You and Mom invited your friends,” I say and then add out the side of my mouth, “and their sons.”

“That’s your mother. She wants to see you happy.” He says this with a laugh, like it’s the most casual thing in the world to invite only their friends with single sons to their daughter’s family-only birthday dinner.

“I’m more than capable of meeting someone on my own.”

“This way, you’ll know he has all of his teeth,” Brian says before he takes a drink of his Heineken and walks off.

He never passes an opportunity to dig into my ex-husband—this comment referring to the fact that Brock is missing two adult teeth from fights on the ice. I don’t mind the digs, really—except, sometimes, it feels like he’s digging into me.

“George, let go of the girl. She has guests to mingle with,” Mom says as she pulls me away from my dad. Waving her other hand, she calls out, “Frank! Frank Romano. Come over here. Look who it is!”

Dad gives me a crooked smile as he pats me on the shoulder. “I’m going to make myself a Tom Collins. You girls want anything?”

“Johnnie on the rocks,” I call out, but he’s already walking toward the bar.

Mom hooks her elbow with mine and pulls me into her as she whispers, “Frank is a real estate attorney. His parents say he’s doing fantastic. Apparently, he’s had quite the crush on you since high school. His mother said she once found a picture of you in his sock drawer.”

I want to hide my face in mortification, but it’s too late. Frank is waddling over. His black hair is slicked back and glistening in the sun, and he looks like he hasn’t shaved in days even though I’m sure he put the razor to his skin this morning.

His arms are out wide as he says in a deep, grumbly voice, “Meadow Duvane! How are ya?”

I cordially pat his back as he envelops me in a giant hug—a little too tight, as I feel my diaphragm shrinking.