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I noted I needed a change to match my outfit and headed out to the kitchen to get it so I could take it back to the closet to do that.
I was in the hall when I realized my son was home from rugby practice (the league didn’t start until January, but they kept conditioned all year long, and by the by, his father was his coach).
That “by the by” was important, since I could hear Yves with company in the kitchen.
And hearing the voices, I knew that company was Remy.
Therefore, I walked into my glorious kitchen with its acres of marble countertops, cream cabinets and unambiguously French country flair, and saw father and son casually leaning against that luscious marble, enjoying a post workout beer.
Father.
And son.
With that father no longer being married to me nor an inhabitant of this house.
And that son being seventeen.
Both pairs of eyes came right to me, but only the older pair did a head-to-toe sweep and back again, this ending in a smirk.
Yes, you better believe I dressed for Cock and Snacktails that would take place around an island in my friend’s kitchen.
Thus, I was now wearing dark-wash, high-waist jeans, a green blouse with big white flowers on it and interesting exaggerated cuffs that went over my red fingertips, with high-heeled, fawn suede booties on my feet.
“Did I miss something in my morning scan of the Arizona Republic? Has the state decreased the legal drinking age to seventeen?” I asked the room at large.
The smirk became a smile.
“Mom, I’m at home,” Yves replied.
I raised my brows at my boy.
“He needs to learn to hold his liquor,” Remy stated.
My attention returned to him because we’d already had this argument about Sabre.
I had, incidentally, lost.
But I was okay to try again.
“You know my feelings about this, Remy,” I told him.
“I do. And you know I don’t agree with you,” he replied.
“And you know I don’t care if you don’t,” I shot back.
“Wyn, do you want him to be a sloppy, teenage-boy drunk?” Remy inquired.
“No,” I replied. “I know my son is intelligent, so he will understand when it’s explained to him that alcohol affects your mood, thinking, coordination, inhibitions, and copious consumption over time can significantly affect your health. And as he’ll understand this, when it’s legal for him to drink, because he’s remarkably intelligent, he’ll do it in moderation.”
“Baby, boys will be boys.”
It was the “baby” that got me, in both very good and very bad ways, thus it ratcheted up my annoyance.
“Yes,” I snapped. “And boys being boys means they might feel peer pressured into trashy, locker room talk about girls. And I know you’ve firmly stressed that even if said girls are absent, that is still a violation of them. And if they ever were to consider engaging in such vile byplay, they should remember their mother and sister and know such things had been said or were being said somewhere about both of them and consider how that feels. But more, how it would make their mother and sister feel. And not only refrain from doing it but tell the buffoons who are doing it to shut their damned mouths because they’re behaving like buffoons.”
“Fucking love it when you slip words like ‘buffoons’ into one of your rants,” Remy murmured.
“Remy!” I shouted.
“It’s just a beer, Wyn. It’s not talking smack about a woman because, yeah, Sabre and Yves know never to do that shit, but also, we’ve just found out, Yves wouldn’t anyway.” He looked to his son. “And no trash talking guys either, kid. What’s good for the gander is the same for the goose.”
Yves, my perfect final child, lifted…his…blasted…beer, smirked at his dad and said, “You’re heard, Father.”
Then he shot back a slug.
“Oh. My. God!” I yelled at my son.
“Don’t you have somewhere to go?” Remy asked.
I opened my mouth, but no.
No.
This was not us anymore.
It wasn’t.
He wanted to have a beer with his underage child?
Fine by me!
“Enjoy yourselves,” I bid, nabbed my bag and stomped out of the room in the direction of my closet.
I heard Remy’s chuckle.
And joining it was a replica of the same.
God!
Why could I not have three girl children?
Why?
Manon was sheer perfection when she wasn’t hinting at the sexual relationship she was having with her boyfriend (and even, kind of, when she was).
Ugh!
I switched out purses, checked my lipstick and hair (no, I did not do this for Remy (yes, that was a lie, I did this because Remy was there)) and marched out, shooting a glare to Remy and blowing a kiss to my son.
God.
Yves
Sabre’s face was already on his laptop screen, and they were shooting the shit while they waited for Manon’s face to hit it.
It did with her saying immediately, “I’m on a date, you dorks. What’s the freaking emergency I have to race to my stupid computer?”
