That wasn’t a fun book club meeting.
Plus, at that meeting, Gert ate most of the taco dip, which really pissed me the fuck off. Part of the reason I’m willing to read their stupid, shitty book selection every month is the taco dip tray I know is going to be at the meetings.
Gertrude and I had it out that night, let me tell you.
“Of course Gert is calling you.” I snort. “She can’t mind her own damn business, the old bag. And besides, who even uses the phone to make calls anymore?”
“That is not the point I’m trying to make and do not call our friends old bags!” Mom is clearly in the kitchen now, chopping some kind of vegetable on the cutting board, and I can’t help but wonder what she’s making Dad for dinner. Stew, probably, since she’s already getting it started. “This was not part of the plan.” Chop, chop, chop. “Now what are we going to do to fix this tangle!”
I chuckle, loving that she called it a tangle.
She stops chopping. “This isn’t funny.”
“I made the Chandler problem better.” She likes me now. She kissed me.
Women don’t climb on top of you and kiss you if they don’t like you. Am I right or am I right?
“I took care of it last night.” I yawn, giving Chewy a scratch on the top of his head.
“No, you made it worse! Now everyone is going to think you’re dating! Our point was to make it appear that you got along—we didn’t need you practically mauling each other in the street.”
Mauling each other on the street?
How does she know about that?
“Can you stop saying we like you’re the Queen of England or we’re on some publicity team together? I’m an athlete, not an influencer. I don’t give a shit what people are saying and I’m done running around for the media. It’s total bullshit.”
The doorbell rings, saving me from this inquisition.
“Mom, I have to go. Molly is here to take Chewy to the dog park.”
“Who is Molly?” I can almost hear her eyes narrowing suspiciously.
I roll mine. Mom probably thinks Molly is a hooker I hired to come blow me.
“She lives next door. She’s obsessed with animals, especially dogs.”
“Why aren’t you going to take Chewy to the dog park yourself?”
Now she’s going to nag me about the damn dog? Is there nothing I can do to make this woman happy? Why do I bother trying?
I scoot out of bed so I can throw a t-shirt on with the shorts I wore to bed, stretching. “I don’t know, Mom,” I answer testily. “She texted last night to see if she could hang out with him. I think there’s a boy she likes that goes to the same dog park.” But what difference does it make? If the kid wants to take the damn dog for a walk, why wouldn’t I let her? Why does my mother have to ride my ass about it, like I’m such a lazy dick who doesn’t care for his animals?
Besides, the extra exercise is good for Chewy’s heart, his mind, and his boxy little body.
Plus, having him out of the house lets me off the hook for a few hours so I can get some work done around here without getting interrupted to play fetch, feed him, or take him to pee. Or heavy breathing and slobbering.
“Don’t get all huffy. I was just asking,” Mom says, as if reading my irritated mind.
I sulk through the phone.
“Call me later—we’re not done with this conversation, young man. And check the internet!”
I hate it when she calls me young man and I hate when she tells me what to do. “Okay. Love you.”
“Call me back,” she tells me again, this time more sternly. “Love you.”
Molly is standing on the stoop when I finally hobble to the door, barefoot and sloppy, hair a mess, no coffee running through my veins.
She looks me up and down with teenage disdain before laying eyes on Chewy, who’s tearing toward her from behind me. Molly squats to greet him. “There’s my boy!” the teenager coos, all eyes on the dog. “There’s my handsome boy.”
Chewy lunges at her full force in a not-so-handsome way, plowing into her, but not knocking her off her feet as I expect him to. Luckily. Molly is tiny and I don’t need the kid sprawled out on her ass in my foyer.
“Morning, Moll,” I say, opening the door all the way so she can come inside. Then, without preamble, I turn back into the foyer, so I can grab coffee from the kitchen.
“Rough night?” she asks, trudging along behind me once Chewy calms down and lets her up.
“No,” I grunt. Molly is fifteen; she doesn’t need to know what a grown man does in his free time.
She pads along behind me, not bothering to remove her sneakers. “Who is that girl you were with last night?”
“No one.” I have the coffee maker on automatic brew, so the pot is full and piping hot when I pour some into a mug.
Sip it slowly so it doesn’t scald my mouth, ignoring Molly’s question.
“Didn’t look like no one.” She’s scratching Chewy’s floppy little ears while at the same time stretching her free arm out to snatch his leash down off the hook by the laundry room door. “Looked like you had your tongue down No One’s throat.”
Whatever liquid I had in my mouth goes down the wrong pipe and a coughing fit begins.
What the hell did she just say?
“Tongue down whose throat?” I continue feigning ignorance, dread filling my gut along with the scalding hot coffee, Mom’s frantic words and warnings assailing me at once.
Shit.
Fuck.
Hump the girl in broad daylight…check the internet…SportsCenter…
“You’re not very good at lying, Mr. Wallace.” Molly latches Chewy’s lead to his collar then makes a show of swiping the screen of her phone. Holds it out so I can see. “Your tongue. Her throat.”
Holy.
Christ.
The photo shoved in my face shows Chandler on top of me in front of her townhouse in the rain and we’re kissing, rain illuminated by the streetlights, glistening like glitter.
We look like a romance novel cover.
The kind of book Darla would choose.
This was the picture Mom was trying to tell me about. I ignored her warnings, not having been in the mood to check the news or my phone or the internet for a story I knew would appear in some way, shape, or form.
But this?
The last thing I was expecting to see, especially from the adolescent dog walker.
“Is this your girlfriend?” Molly wants to know, staring me down as only a teenage girl can do, all judgmental like, while winding and unwinding the slack from Chewy’s lead around her hand.
Why hasn’t she left yet?
“No.”
“She’s pretty.”
How the hell can you tell? My tongue is down her throat and you can’t see her face, I want to ask but remember myself in time, remember who my audience is.
I grunt.
“Why are you on the ground with her if she’s not your girlfriend?”
Molly has settled at the end of the counter, hip resting against the cold, marble top, in no rush to get Chewy out the door.
“She’s giving me CPR. I passed out.”
Molly rolls her eyes. “Why won’t you just tell me what you’re doing with her on the ground?”