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Kiki bounces back to our table. “TJ, this next song is for you and guaranteed to cheer you up.”
Mandy pulls herself back to our table and takes a long sip of her cocktail, fanning herself with the cocktail napkin. “It is hotter than a naked coochie sunnin’ on the patio in August. Egg-fryin’ hot, you know what I mean? Y’all, I could fry an egg on my coochie right now, it’s hotter than the devil’s armpits.”
“Mandy!” Andie rubs a hand down her face. “We get it.”
“That paints quite a picture, Mandy.” Kiki laughs.
Saweetie’s “Best Friend” plays over the sound system.
“Oh my gawd, I love this song!” Mandy yells at the top of her lungs like Oprah, shaking her hands in the air. She dances at the table while the girls clap and take turns singing the lyrics. Kiki knows I blast this song every time it plays on the radio, and I love them for trying to cheer me up by singing it, but even this can’t lift me out of my funk.
“I’ve got to go home,” I cry, jumping up from the table. My throat tightens and my clothes feel suffocating. The chatter and music are too loud and the walls of the club seem to be closing in on me. I have to get out of here or I might puke. The girls look at me, their eyes wide and mouths open. “I appreciate all of you, but I can’t tonight. I’m sorry.”
“TJ, wait.” Kiki scrambles out of her chair, almost falling flat on her face.
I need to get out of this club, out of this city. I can’t stay here and wallow or I’ll lose my mind.
“Where are you going?” Kiki shouts.
Anywhere but here. I need to go hide, where I can lick my wounds and heal. Where my husband and friends won’t give me pitiful looks and whisper in front of me. I need a place for my sad heart to land. I need my nana.
“I’m going to go see Nana Rose. I’ll call y’all when I get back.” I hadn’t planned to go see her, but as soon as the words leave my lips, I know it’s what I need to help heal my heart. I push through the crowd, out into the street to call an Uber. Then, I text Nana.
Me:Nana, I’m coming to visit.
Nana:Ooh delightful, honey. When?
Me:I’m catching the first flight out tomorrow.
Nana:Just you?
Me:Yes, Connor and I are fine. I need to see you.
Nana:Oh dear, this sounds serious. I’ll cancel my poker tournament tomorrow. See you soon.
Me:Thanks Nana.
Nana:Don’t be a fiddle fart and thank me. That’s what nanas are for.
Chapter 22
TJ
Most people graduallychange over the years. It’s a natural part of growing older. Their looks become weathered, their bodies shrink a few inches, and their minds turn fuzzy. My Nana Rose is the exception. She may have shrunk a few inches, and acquired a few more laugh lines, but she’s the same old free spirit, spitfire she was thirty years ago.
Nana lives in a large retirement community in West Palm Beach, Florida. The brochures show lush green golf courses and quaint little bungalows nestled near the beaches with stunning sunsets. You can go shelling in the mornings, crafting at lunchtime, tennis in the afternoons, or ocean swims in the evenings. Even I want to move here.
What the brochure doesn’t show you is a bunch of eighty-year-olds zipping around in their golf carts and having sex in the dunes like they’re eighteen again.
After the sex scandal of ’09, where there was a big chlamydia outbreak, Breezy Palms Retirement Resort was not taking any chances. They now proudly display condom jars at the front desk and in every bathroom in the facility. The thought of Nana having sex makes me want to drive my car into the ocean. No, thank you. But, I have to admit, she is happy here and has a busier social calendar than I do.
I pull up to Nana’s single-story, twelve-hundred-square-foot cottage home nestled in between palm trees, hot-pink bougainvillea, and birds of paradise. It’s painted a pale blue with white shutters. It’s quaint and charming, located right on the beach. I couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful place for my Nana to live, and it brings me comfort being so far from her.
The front door almost collapses on its hinges as the five-foot-three hellfire I lovingly call Nana Rose comes bursting out the door. “He’s here,” she cries out, throwing her arms up above her head. She pulls me into a tight squeeze, then quickly releases me, squinting her eyes. She’s wearing a neon-yellow leotard paired with a neon-pink sweatshirt cut to hang off one shoulder, from herFlash Dancedays, no doubt. Her purple leg warmers cover up her spindly legs and she’s wearing white Reebok high-tops. Her box-dyed orange hair is cut to her chin with pixie sparkle strands sprinkled in. Connor always said she reminds him of that little old lady who sings the hip-hop hippity-hop song from the movie,The Wedding Singer.
“Nana, were you on your way to aerobics class?”
“Oh, well, if you consider couples’ intimate yoga aerobics, then yes. Henry asked me to be his partner.” She waggles her eyebrows and I block the mental image of Nana doing downward dog over some crotchety old guy named Henry. “But never mind that. Let me get a look at you! You’ve grown.”
