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Yeah, he did.
Because…instincts. I’m aware that I’m inclined to not like her, solely based on what Lake has told me.
But Steve is not a beast.
He’s just good at reading people.
I move over to him, scooping him up and carrying him back into the kitchen.
It’s late. I’m tired. I want to crawl into bed with Lake and sleep until morning, sleep until I wake up and try this interaction over.
“Steve is friendly,” I say, moving to the cabinets and searching for something that might placate her.
Wine?
Cheese and crackers?
Enough vodka so she passes out.
When in doubt, mules.
Plus, it’ll give me something to do so I don’t run out the door.
Using Lake. Shit.
That was…terrifying and not me. Only…wasn’t it? I’m staying here and—
Stop.
I grab some lemons, start slicing them, wracking my brain for a question that won’t set her off, that won’t have me traversing a landscape of broken glass in bare feet.
“Did you have a nice flight?”
“God no,” she snaps. “Travel is always arduous for me.” A sigh. “Especially when I’m traveling and my son isn’t here to greet me.”
“Oh,” I say, squeezing the juice into a bowl, straining out the seeds. “Did he know you were coming?”
I can’t believe he wouldn’t say anything, but he has been really busy lately, with travel and photoshoots and testing the next version of my mules that I’m creating.
I’m thinking cucumber and raspberry.
But…that’s off topic because Lake’s mom sniffs again. “No.”
“Oh,” I say again. “Okay.”
Right.
I get that, but also—
“Did you think to tell him?”
“Did my son think to tell me he’s got a whore in his house?”
I’m cutting another lemon, and the knife slips, nearly slicing my hand off. Luckily, I jerk it out of the way in time.
But I decide that maybe knives and this conversation shouldn’t mix, so I set it aside, try to broach this strange, landmine-filled gulf with his mom again.
Move forward.
