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“In here,” she calls from her bedroom.
I stand in the doorway for a moment, taking her in. Mom is beautiful in a quiet, understated way. Her dark hair flips and flops around her chin in a messy bob, her freckles have been joined by some wrinkles over the years, and her face is bare of makeup besides mascara and tinted Chapstick. Her outfit is comprised of out-of-style, dark-wash skinny jeans, Birkenstock sandals, and a high-neck T-shirt. Nothing about Mom is loud or attention grabbing other than her kind heart.
And the beaming smile with a stranglehold on her face right now.
“Looks like your date was a success,” I venture.
Somehow, her grin grows even wider. “It was. Marvin made us dinner. He’s a grill master of sorts. Has a smoker, a Traeger, a Blackstone, and maybe some other thing? I can’t remember, all I know is that I’ve never had chicken that juicy and delicious. And then we watched the sunset and the stars come out.”
She stops there, and I prompt, “And then? I don’t need details, but did you have a good, very good, or very, very good night? Fair warning, if it was less than stellar, you deserve better.”
She giggles in that way I swear I’ve never heard from her before and then emphatically holds two thumbs up.
“Enough said,” I tell her with an answering smile of my own.
I’m happy for her and hate to burst her bubble at all, but I think she needs to know about Olivia’s reaction to the overnight date. “Olivia was okay at brunch today, but Luna said something that made me think. Do you think maybe she’s worried about your dating because she doesn’t want you to get hurt? I mean, Dad’s an ass and did a real number on us all. Maybe Olivia’s finally realized that and is worried that’ll happen again?”
Mom sits heavily on the edge of the bed, her eyes falling to her hands in her lap. “I don’t know. I’ve tried talking to her about it so many times, but she shuts me out every time. Or blows me off, laughing like it’s no big deal when I know it is.”
“Keep trying,” I advise her. “She might not act like it, but she hears you. And seeing you make your happiness a priority is a good example for her. As long as this Marvin guy treats you right and you keep smiling like you were when I came in here, she’ll come around. Eventually.”
I cross my fingers, holding them up for Mom to see, and she laughs a little. “Honey, I’ve got my fingers, toes, knees, and eyes crossed that this goes well. I’m not made for this dating stuff anymore. One of my friends dated a guy, then he disappeared on her. Ghosted, I think she called it?” she says, looking to me for confirmation that she’s using the word correctly. “And then, months later, she’s moved on, hasn’t given him a thought, and he messages her out of the blue. She said it was ‘zombie-ing’ or something?” I nod, agreeing that’s what it’s called and that it’s awful. “But you’ll never guess what he messaged! It was a picture of his penis and the letters DTF. Can you believe that?” She didn’t even know what it meant, and I certainly didn’t, so she Googled it.” She makes a face of scandalized confusion. “Like did he really think she was gonna be that desperate?”
“Sadly, yeah. He probably did,” I reply. “And unsolicited dick pics are ridiculously common.”
Mom’s confusion morphs into anger. “Have you gotten one? From whom? I’ll kick his behind.”
I laugh at her indignation on my behalf. “More than one, Mom. Ridiculously common,” I repeat. “I used to engage—send back dick pics from the internet, tell them they should get that checked out, or send ratings like 2/10 or the fingers one-inch apart emoji.”
I hold my hand up, demonstrating. “But now, I just block and move on. I don’t have time to fix that kinda twisted thinking for guys who don’t think they’re doing anything wrong. And my mental health assistance costs money. I’m not giving it away for free,” I joke, both of us aware that all my counseling sessions are strictly for practice and with other psychology students, not actual, paying clients. Yet.
“That’s my girl. Using your noggin,” she tells me proudly. “And stay away from boys like that. Anyway, I’ll see if I can get Olivia to talk to me or listen to me. Or hell, be in the same room without my mere presence annoying her.”
I smile grimly. “She’ll come around, Mom. Eventually... maybe... hopefully.”
The decreasing likelihood is merciless but accurate considering Olivia is just as stubborn as Mom and I are.
CHAPTER7
CHANCE
“We should coordinate our ties better,”Evan says as he checks himself in the test feed. We’re ten minutes to go-time, and by this point, things are routine. We have a near-pro setup—good lighting, excellent microphones, and two high-quality cameras feeding into our laptops. All we have to do is plug and play.
We started our podcast a couple of years ago. It’s a bit of a ‘which came first, the chicken or the egg’ type deal with us, only the chicken is the podcast and the egg is the Gentlemen’s Club. We dreamed them up together, a way to mentor a select few right in our own backyards and simultaneously help a wider audience. They’ve grown individually in fits and spurts, sometimes one requiring more of our attention than the other, but we do our best to grow in an intentionally-diversified, well-rounded way.
“What do you mean?” I ask as I tweak the ring light that’s on my left. It moves an inch over, eliminating a shadow that was stretching across my cheek. Good. I glance down at my red tie and shrug. “I can change if you think it matters.”
“If you have a Duke blue one like mine...” Evan comments, but trails off as he fidgets with his laptop.
He’s likely already forgotten his suggestion, but I get up and go to my office to grab another tie anyway. Of course I have a navy blue one, or close enough. I pull it around my neck and quickly do my favorite double Windsor knot before going back out to take my seat. “Better?” I ask, holding my hands wide so he can see my coordinating tie.
“Perfect,” Evan says, his eyes never leaving his screen. “Son of a bitch!” he hisses suddenly.
“What?” In my chair, across the table, I can’t see what Evan’s upset about, but his eyes are flicking left and right as he reads something.
“Fucking trolls.” He hits a button on the keyboard harder than necessary. “Nothing to worry about. Let’s do this.”
“You sure?” I ask. He’s obviously upset. I’m guessing it’s over a fan letter if he’s talking about trolls. We get positive ones that hype us up and provide inspiration for future show topics, but along with those come a fair share of negative ones too. People calling us names, saying we’re full of shit, and that we’re coattail riders of real men like Jake McGibbons. We do our best to let those slide off our backs, but sometimes, it’s hard.
