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“Personal,” she answers. “Hey, Olivia! How’s life?”
It’s a generic question, but Olivia takes the opportunity to piss on me. “Annoying. I’ve got this one” —she throws a thumb my way— “hauling me around like I’m her latest fashion accessory, Mom pawning me off so she can get her freak on with her latest boytoy, and—"
I don’t let her finish. She can talk shit about me all she wants, but Mom? Hell, no. “Olivia, Mom has dated exactly one man since Dad left, and she deserves to be happy. And yeah, to get her freak on.”
“What’s that mean? Gechur freak on?” Gracie echoes, and I freeze, realizing belatedly that I shouldn’t have said that in front of her considering she echoes everything, even if she only hears it once in passing. But her follow-up little girl giggles are wild and loud. “Psyche! I know that means s-e-x. So does screwing, banging, and fu—"
“No!” Luna shouts, lunging for Gracie and covering her mouth with a paint-smeared hand. “That’s an adult word.”
“Uncle Kyle says it,” Gracie answers behind Luna’s hand, adding a shrug of ‘who cares’ for good measure.
“He’s an adult,” Luna argues as she moves her hand away. “Well, mostly.”
Kyle is Nutbuster’s dad and the youngest brother of the Harrington family. He’s also the black sheep for reasons I don’t understand. Luna says he doesn’t play well with others, mostly his father, who has lots of expectations of what being a Harrington entails. Ones that Kyle essentially said ‘fuck you’ to and rode off into the sunset. He didn’t even come to Carter and Luna’s wedding, though it was last-minute and a bit of a farce, but still... he should’ve come.
Trying to get us back to the point, I remind Olivia, “Have you even met Marvin yet? Or are you just pissed that Mom’s dating?” She doesn’t answer other than to roll her eyes and scoff haughtily, but I can translate her teen-speak. “That’s what I thought. Could you maybe pull your head out of your own ass, realize that the world doesn’t revolve around you, and be happy for Mom that she’s found someone she wants to spend time with?”
“Whatever,” she snarls, jumping up from the blanket. “C’mon, kid. Let’s go somewhere that focusing on ourselves isn’t seen as self-centered by narcissists who’re blind to their own shortcomings.”
With that, Olivia leads Gracie and Peanut Butter away toward the playground equipment.
“Why did I waste my sixth, seventh, and eighth birthday wishes hoping for a sibling?” I sigh as I flop to the blanket. “I should’ve wished for a Barbie dream house or a cat.”
Luna grimaces sympathetically. “Trouble in paradise?”
She knows that my home life wasn’t a vacation, but Mom did the best she could. I just wish Olivia could see that. “I can’t with her. I don’t think I was ever that...ugh,” I finish with a growl. But a moment later, I’m asking, “Is she right? Am I doing the whole ‘pot-kettle-black’ thing, telling her she’s acting like the world revolves around her and simultaneously acting like I think it revolves around me?”
I truly want Luna’s opinion, but I’m already doing some self-analysis too. Luna’s quiet for a moment, and if it were anyone else, I’d be worried they didn’t want to risk hurting my feelings with an ugly truth.
But Luna’s more likely doing a thorough character, behavior, and intention analysis. “Nope, you’re not self-centered.” My relief is short-lived, though, because she adds, “But I don’t think Olivia is either. She’s worried about her mom dating for the first time after an ugly divorce where she got a surprising, up-close, and personal look at what douche canoes men can be from the one man who’s supposed to be her rock. Maybe she’s not jealous of your mom’s time but is trying to protect her... awkwardly.”
Huh. I hadn’t thought of it from that angle, though I definitely should’ve because it actually makes a lot of sense. Olivia blamed Mom after the divorce and had a lot of anger, but maybe she’s finally realizing that Dad carried way more than half the responsibility for imploding their marriage. That’s enough to make her mad all over again, and probably a bit jaded where men are concerned, right as Mom’s taking a chance on another one.
I turn my head, examining the fluffy clouds in the blue sky as I mull that over. “Okay, Dr. Harrington, what about this?”
I tell her a brief version of my day—and night—yesterday, from rushing into the hotel, falling on stage amid a flurry of dicks, running into the hot speaker in the hotel bar, and going upstairs for the best sex I’ve ever had.
“You what?” Luna screeches incredulously, her eyes so wide, I can see the whites all the way around the blue centers. I think her reaction to my best-sex-ever comment is a bit dramatic, but she adds, “Flat on your face, dicks everywhere, spotlight on you, yourself, and you, and Jaxx had to rescue you?”
Oh, she’s reacting to my sex toy debacle. Oddly enough, that seems like a long time ago after the double round of sex with Chance.
“Yep,” I tell her, “And as bad as it sounds, it was one billion percent worse to live it. The only things that made it better were the orgasms and earning my two-thousand-dollar bonus.” I drop that bombshell on purpose, a little humble brag among friends who typically celebrate each other’s wins, but she’s focused on something else.
“You’re not usually into the hookup scene. He must’ve really charmed the jumpsuit off’a you.” She helped me pick out the pink jumpsuit for the meeting and knows it’s not exactly a shove it up and shove a dick inside type of outfit. Not that I’ve done that... in a while.
“He did,” I confess. “Didn’t hurt that he was a blond, blue-eyed sex god, either.” A blissed-out smile takes my face as I remember Chance laid back on the chaise, waiting for me to suck him down.
“I’ve got one of those at home and know how persuasive they can be. Carter can hakuna ma-tata’s anytime.” Luna’s description of her husband as a blond, blue-eyed sex god jars me more than her bastardization of a Disney movie saying because she watches more kid movies than anyone I know and doesn’t have kids of her own.
But come to think of it, Chance did vaguely resemble Carter, in that ‘Hamptons in the summer on a private yacht’ way.
“You gonna see him again?”
I probably should’ve said something to Chance before leaving this morning, but he seemed too good to be true, and in my hazy mind, I hadn't wanted the awkward moment of ‘I’ll call you’ when we both knew he wouldn’t, so I’d quietly snuck out, leaving nothing more than a lipstick kiss on his shoulder, where it stuck out of the sheets as he slept. Something told me that it’d both irk and amuse him to wake up and find a long-wearing mark staining his skin.
“Nah, one and done. I snuck out for my walk of shame, not that I’m ashamed of a thing after that awesome night. But we’d never work anyway, and I’ve got to focus on school and making bank. The good news is that I’m giving notice at the store. Bedroom Heaven is way more money, in my area of expertise, and flexible for classes. And they don’t treat you like you’re as disposable as the straws.”
“Save the turtles!” we intone together, a silly habit we picked up anytime someone mentions straws.
