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Glancing back over my shoulder at the older man sitting in his golf cart along the front curb of the Dip and Twist, drinking his nightly butterscotch milkshake, I give him a sheepish smile and a wave before turning back to glare at her.
“Be nice to Ed,” I scold. “You know he’s just waiting for my mom to finish so he can make sure she gets home okay. It’s sweet. Don’t be rude.”
Ed Walton, the owner of Dockside Eddy’s, has been coming up here for a nightly milkshake for as long as I can remember, making sure my mom and I are safe after locking up for the night.
“That man only comes up there now for gossip and you know it.” Emily scoffs, and I shrug, knowing she’s probably right. Ed has gotten more than an earful on the nights he’s been here for Sip and Bitches. “And now you just gave me the answer to your problem. Dammit. I was hoping Shepherd was smarter than this….” Emily trails off with a shake of her head.
“What are you talking about? What’s the answer to my problem?”
“Dude.” She snorts, bringing her face closer to the screen. “He mommed you.”
“He what me?”
“Oh man, he’s momming you so hard.” She sighs.
“Is that a weird Urban Dictionary sex thing I’m gonna have to look up and then regret looking up like the blue waffle thing I still have nightmares about? I already told you there have been no sexy times, weird or otherwise. He hasn’t even touched my boobs.”
Emily’s face gets smaller on the screen as she leans back against the headboard of her bed, resting her outstretched arms holding the phone on her bent, blanket-covered knees.
“No, it’s not a weird Urban Dictionary thing with moms, although there is that lactophilia fetish where guys get turned on by breast milk.”
“I’m sorry I asked,” I murmur with a shake of my head.
“In a nutshell, he’s no longer looking at you like a hot piece of ass he wants to fuck into next week. Shepherd now sees you as a mom who he has to be gentle with and treat with respect,” Emily explains, my body now flushing with annoyance for that man instead of need.
“But I’m not his mother,” I complain, quickly running through every minute we’ve spent together just to make sure I never scolded him or treated him like a child, because that would certainly suck.
“But you’re someone’s mother, so it doesn’t matter. One of the guys probably got in his head and told him to slow things down. You said they told him about all the shit Kevin has done to you when they hung out at breakfast, so I’m sure that didn’t help either. A guy like Shepherd would really want to make sure you are being respected after the crap Kevin has pulled. My money is on Palmer. He’s a sensitive little shit.”
Son of a Baby Ruth….
“What’s going on? What did I miss?” my mom asks excitedly, wiping her hands on the black apron she has tied around her waist as she walks around from the back of the shop to join me at the purple picnic table.
My mom and I have always been close. Birdie makes fun of me all the time, because I have always told our mom everything, good and bad. Birdie likes to have her secrets, but I don’t know. There’s just something different about my relationship with our mom, and I know it’s probably because I followed right in her footsteps, both of us getting pregnant by a loser tourist at the age of twenty. At least our sperm donor walked away and never showed his face again after Birdie was born, but it still formed a special bond between us. Like we’d both gone through the same war and lived to tell the tale. She’s as up-to-speed as Emily on my last few weeks of dating Shepherd, so at least I don’t have to go through another rundown of all our dates, making me feel guilty all over again that I’m even complaining about anything. I’d much rather hold on to my anger with Shepherd right now than go back to feeling bad.
“Well, Laura, you missed the sad reality that Shepherd has mommed Wren,” Emily explains as my mom waves to her on the screen, her smile quickly falling as her head whips to the side to look at me.
“Oh no,” she whispers. “He mommed you? I never expected this from Shepherd Oliver.”
“How in the hell do you know what that means?” I ask.
She scoffs. “Um, hello? Because I’m a mom. And in case you’ve forgotten, I have a very healthy sexual appetite.”
“Eeewww,” I mutter as Emily claps her hands and cheers.
Literally. She’s a goddamn professional cheerleader. I have to wait a full two minutes before she finishes three rounds of her S-E-X. Go Sex. Get it, Laura! chant.
