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“There was a woman in your bed this morning?” Zach asks, wearing a shit-eating grin.
“There was, but—”
“Nice!”
“Yes, very nice,” Sarah says, arching those mom-brows again. “So nice, in fact, that your children think she’s a princess.”
“Why do they think she’s a princess?” Zach asks.
“Because they saw her sleeping in his bed—”
“You let my kids see the floozy in your bed?” Zach’s tone changes and his eyebrows gather together. He’s making the same face as Dad when he realized I refilled the whiskey bottles with iced tea.
“Oh, so she’s a floozy now?” I ask.
“That’s what I’m hearing,” he says.
“She wasn’t a floozy,” I say.
“Let’s not call the poor woman names,” Sarah says.
“Then she was someone special?” Zach asks with a scoff.
“It was Faye,” I say. His eyes go wide and a silly smile fills his wide face.
“Oh, Faye?”
“It was Faye?” Sarah asks, cocking her head as her face goes full matchmaker. “Well, why didn’t they just say it was Auntie Faye?”
“It was a whole thing,” I say.
“Did she consent?” Sarah snaps.
“It wasn’t like that.”
“She was at the bar with me earlier,” I say, as if it’s obvious.
“The bar?” Sarah asks, glaring at Zach.
“Which bar?” Zach asks.
“Not your bar?”
“Not my bar.”
“Who’s on first?” I say, throwing my hands up in frustration.
“She had a rough day and met me at the Matador, and then I brought her home. To sleep.” The clarification feels necessary.
“So my kids saw Faye in your bed this morning?” Sarah asks, and both of them look at me with eager, candy-grabbing eyes.
“Don’t do that,” I say, pointing at Sarah.
“Don’t do what?” Sarah asks, schooling her face into a look of utter innocence.
“What’s she doing?” Zach asks.
“I’m not doing anything!” Sarah holds up her free hand in defense.
