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“Yeah?”
“Yup.” He tosses an almond into his mouth and chews. “This jewelry brand I worked for. I was only there two weeks, but I think I made an impression.”
“Did you now,” I say with a smile as I realize he’s talking about Elodie. “Are you sure it was a good impression?”
“Oh, I’m quite sure. It was not a good impression. But I’ve done some damage control, and I think I’ve reversed early opinions.”
I narrow my eyes. “You are talking about Christina as your in, right? Because if it’s me, I won’t have enough pull early on, it would take some time.”
“Mac, Mac, Mac. You do realize you’re proposing quite the potential conflict of interest? Bringing on a freelancer who’s also your lover?”
“Ugh, use the word ‘lover’ again and we won’t be conflicting our interests ever again.” Then I wiggle my eyebrows. “That said, when I signed on to be a director, I never promised no scandals.”
“Much appreciated,” he laughs. “But I was actually referring to Christina as my in. She said to let her know if I ever decided to go the contract route; apparently it’s a path they’re exploring for project management, especially on things like the C&S campaign.”
“Huh.” I take a distracted sip of champagne.
“That okay?” he asks.
“Of course! I guess I’m just realizing it means that I could see you on a regular basis even as long as you and I are no longer doing this.” I gesture between us.
He watches me carefully. “You’re not freaking out about that?”
I’m cautious with my answer. “We’re adults. I have no doubt that we’ll be able to be civil long after we stop sleeping together.”
“And when you learn, someday, that I’m seeing someone, how will you feel about that?”
My stomach tightens. “Are you?”
“Not currently. But I will, someday, Mac. I’m looking for someone to share my life with. You know that.”
I do know that. And I know I have to respect it just like he respects I don’t want that. I do respect it, I want Thomas to be happy.
It’s just that I also sort of hate how much I hate the Future Mrs. Decker.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Thursday, October 20
My mom’s apartment is not one of those “places you can go home to.” For starters, it’s always changing. As when I was growing up and we rarely stayed in the same place for more than a year, my mother is leaning more towards vagabond than ever.
She’ll find a “great little place just off the L train,” that she’ll stay in six months, tops, before she inevitably ends up sleeping on her friend Debbie’s couch again, because “it just didn’t work out.”
My couch is no stranger to her nomad ways as well, and though I love her, that’s way too much togetherness, so I’ve found a gentle but effective way of limiting that particular routine. It’s as simple as telling her of course she can stay at my place, as long as she wants, and then after (noisily) making my coffee before work every morning, asking my mother, who’d clearly wanted to sleep until noon, in my most chipper voice:
“What are your plans for the day?”
It’s a good strategy, if I do say so myself. Even my wonderfully loopy mother doesn’t like having to answer “nothing” more than three days in a row, which ensures her stay is always short.
I used to feel a little guilty about not encouraging her to stay longer until Collette helped me reframe: by not allowing my mom to sleep on my couch indefinitely, it preserved our relationship. Because no mother–daughter relationship, no matter how stable, needs that kind of proximity.
And you know, my relationship with my mom? It’s good. She drives me crazy. A lot. Sometimes I wish she were just a tiny bit more traditional, in the sense that I could lean on her.
But I’ve accepted that she is who she is, and we are what we are.
One of the best parts of having the “fun mom” is our happy-hour tradition. We’re both always on the lookout for the best deals, the kind of place that has not just fifty-cent wings on Wednesday, but prime rib sliders and martinis, not just generic “well drinks.” My latest find is a new Mexican place, with three-dollar shrimp tacos, and pretty great margaritas.
“So,” Mom says as she painstakingly picks cilantro off her taco and sets it on the rim of her plate. “I’ve been dying of curiosity, what is your big news that you refused to tell me over text?
“No, no, I want to guess,” she says before I can answer, settling more firmly on her bar stool. “You’ve discovered the best sex of your life.”
“Mom!”
“What!” she protests. “I thought I raised you never to think of sex or female pleasure as a sin.”
“I don’t, I just think discussing it with my mother is.”
