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The words didn’t come.
Paulie came in for happy hour on Tuesday. She looked the same—love hadn’t changed anything about her on the outside, which was oddly reassuring. “So the whole Chicken King’s virgin daughter...” Colleen said.
“The title no longer applies,” Paulie said, holding her hand up for a high five.
Colleen laughed. “Think you guys will work out? Now that you’ve seen him up close and personal?”
Paulie pulled a protein drink from her gym bag, twisted off the cap and took a chug. “Pour a little vodka in that, what do you say?” she suggested.
With a wince, Colleen obliged. Worse than Mom’s 7-Up and white Zin.
Paulie took a sip and sighed with satisfaction. “Things are great,” she said. “Bryce is the sweetest man on earth. He cooked me a cheeseburger last night, heated up some French fries, and guess what? He inherited a shitload of money, and he’s donating a huge lump to the animal shelter. He could’ve bought a Maserati or Porsche, but no, he put some in a nice mutual fund.Andhe’s taking classes to become a real trainer.” She chugged some more of her unusual cocktail. “Seems like everyone kind of underestimated him.”
“Except you.”
“Except me.” She smiled proudly.
“He seems smitten.”
Paulie’s smile was so bright that it could power a good-sized car. “I’m doing my best. Got any sex tips for me?”
“Not me, sister. My advice days are over. But you know who would? Prudence Vanderbeek. She’s in the back booth there with Honor. Go on, ask her. You’ll make her day.”
* * *
WHENSHECOULDN’Tavoid it any longer, Colleen went to see her mom. Dear old Mother had been silent lately, not using her typical guilt-trip tactics of stopping by the bar looking homeless, or texting things likeHave you been in an accident? I haven’t heard from you in weeks. Is this still your phone number?
The silence was not reassuring.
She pulled into the driveway, and woe unto her, saw Dad’s stupid Porsche Cayenne, meant to advertise his lowering testosterone levels and thinning hair. Well. She may as well face both parents at once.
She went inside. “Hi, Mom!”
“Don’t come in!” Mom said. “Your father’s naked.”
“Oh, come on! Haven’t I had enough psychological trauma for one summer?”
“I’mpaintinghim,” Mom said. “Don’t get your panties in a twist. It’s safe now, come in, sweetheart.”
Feeling very much like Sisyphus shoving his rock, Colleen approached. “Hello, parents.”
“Hello, Colleen.”
“Dad. Nude modeling, huh? I would’ve thought the car and another divorce would cover your male menopause.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “She asked me to pose, and I wanted to make her happy.”
“Better late than never.”
“What can I do for you, Collie?” Mom asked. She wore a paint-smeared, oversize shirt, leggings and bare feet. Two inches of gray roots showed on her head. She looked relaxed, which wasn’t the typical case when Dad was around.
“So let’s cut to the chase,” Colleen said. “Are you guys really getting back together? Is Gail the Tail over?”
Dad didn’t answer.
“Would it be a bad thing, honey?” Mom asked carefully.
Colleen looked at her father a long minute. There was no going back to the vision of her father as some kind of rock star among fathers. He was a shallow, selfish man.
