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Mom tucks a gray strand behind her ear with a frown. “They do have coffee and tea there, you know. Stuff like that. My treat.”
I avoid meeting her gaze. “I really ought to get job hunting.”
She touches my arm. “Honey.”
I shrug her off. “Don’t push it, Mom.”
She sighs, both arms falling at her sides. “But you two are my babies. It just makes sense that I’d want you two to get along. Can’t you?”
“No.” I put more force in the word than I’m feeling. Really, it’s just too early for this. And my head’s still messed up from the other night and this upcoming maybe-actually-decent date on the table. Not that I’m ever in the mood to talk about Peyton. “Mom, you know how she is.”
The resigned tilt to Mom’s blue eyes indicates that she knows full well how she is, but instead, she says, “She’s just high-strung, and likes to talk about herself, and…”
“Mom.” I don’t even bother to let her finish; we both know what she’s going to say. She’s not going to get me to go along with her doomed peacemaking attempts this time. “Last time I saw her, she went on a 20-minute spiel about her new $1,000 Louis Vuitton shoes before asking me why my sneakers looked so horrid and holey. She’s a”—I swallow back the word ‘bitch’, hearing Mom’s scolding tone in my head and quickly replace it with “jerk.”
“Well,” Mom says firmly. “She’s your sister and you should love her.”
“Wrong,” I reply. “It’s even harder because she is my sister. Maybe if she was just an acquaintance, I would know her so little that I’d actually think she was OK. But Mom, she broke half my toys when we were kids, and now that we’re adults, she spends most of her time trying to talk down to me or just act superior.”
“You know she’s just insecure,” Mom argues.
“No.” I go to the door and open it. “I know that you coddle her and won’t accept my decision to stay as far away from her as I possibly can. Anyway, I hope you have a good time.”
“Fine,” Mom says tersely, heading out the door. “This isn’t over.”
After the door closes, a sad smile comes over my face. “No. It never will be.”
I turn to Horatio, who’s studying me carefully. Probably trying to figure out if I’ll spoil him as much as Mom did the past few days, to which the answer is: hell no. Mom buys whole organic grain-fed juice-glistening BBQ chickens for the fat little guy.
I do get out his food, water, and his favorite treat, giving him a little pat.
He lets out a low whine, his sleek gray head bowing glumly.
“I know,” I say, partially to him, partially to myself. “Things don’t always turn out how we’d like.”
Although that doesn’t mean tonight won’t.
The rest of the day is job-searching and ramen-snacking. And then, the text comes:
Tonight at 7 works if I pick you up?
I text back: Sounds good. I’m at 2387 Clair Creek Blvd.
A few minutes later, as I send out resumes that I’m 89% sure won’t be responded to, I find myself smiling.
6:30 comes fast and slow, the way it does on days when you have something to look forward to but work to slog through as well.
One minute, I’m shooting off my latest resume, the next I’m standing barefoot in front of my closet an hour before my date, totally stumped.
Horatio pads by to give me a baleful look—he probably just found that I replaced his favorite sheepskin rug that he liked to poop on with a less-appealing scratchy straw one.
My hands paw through the clothes in my closet—mostly Mom’s purchases of work-appropriate clothes for the high-flying not-journalism job I still don’t have—before returning to my phone.
There’s only one thing to do…
“Hello,” Josie says, picking up. “Last-minute date SOS?”
“Yeah,” I admit. “I have no clue what to wear.”
“Still deciding between classy or slutty?” she says knowingly, and I can pretty much hear her devilish smile over the line.
“I can’t be both?” I joke, then sigh. “Honestly, yes. I feel nervous and hungry enough that maybe my uncomfortable dresses aren’t a good idea, and I’m pretty sure that one dress makes me look like a pregnant murderess and—”
“Accept my video request,” Josie says succinctly.
“Fine,” I say, turning on my video.
“Now, try on a few, and I’ll give my verdict,” she says sternly, face matching her tone. “Don’t you have a few from your aunt you could try?”
“Believe me,” I tell her. “We do not want to go there.”
“Retro can be cool,” she argues, and once again I can practically see the stubborn set of her probably coral-glossed lips from just her tone over the phone. “Try one.”
“Alright, suit yourself,” I say, grimacing already.
This won’t take long.
I know just the dress to disabuse Josie of any nostalgic delusions that any of these ‘retro’ dresses would be suitable for anything other than a laugh.
