Why hadn’t Delaney shared this interest with me?
As though she could read my mind, Samantha said, “I don’t think she wanted to tell anyone yet because she wasn’t sure if she’d like it. She’s never taken a class like this before, and most of the other students in it are adults. She’s incredibly talented though, and I think she needs to harness that gift. You should see these paintings …”
“I saw them the other day when I was at your house,” I said, softly.
“Oh. Sorry, yeah, I forgot about that. Listen, I don’t know who the boy is, but I’m guessing it has something to do with an art project she’s working on. I don’t think it’s anything sexual, honestly.”
“I guess it’s possible …”
“A boy sending her photos wouldn’t interest her much anyway,” Samantha said, stiffly.
What the fuck does that mean?
“I thought you knew … She’s not interested in men, or boys for that matter. She’s a lesbian, Ivy.”
I gasped, and not because my daughter’s sexual preference made a difference to me but because she hadn’t told me. And worst of all, how could I not know?
Aren’t mothers supposed to know these things?
My mind rolled back the film. How many times had I asked her about boys? How selfish could I be? Everyday questions I never considered: Are there any boys that you like in your class? Did any boys ask you to the dance? The boys are being nice to you, aren’t they?
How stupid I’ve been, how out of the loop …
“We should have told you about the class, but I just assumed she already had or would once she decided to commit to it fully. I promise you, she’s not sexually active. Not with anyone. And I’ll ask her about the photo, but I’m basically certain that it’s for an art project,” Samantha was rambling now.
My head was spinning and my heart hurt. I wish Delaney would talk to me about these things, not Samantha. But at least she felt comfortable telling someone …
“Ivy, are you still there?”
I cleared my throat. “I am. Thanks for clearing that up for me. It’s a relief, honestly. I appreciate it. Talk to you later.”
Samantha started to say something else, but I hung up the phone before I could hear it.
Chapter 11
BEFORE
“You know what they say. You have to get back in the saddle again …” Pam teased.
We were talking about Ben again, but in truth, my mind was stuck on Delaney. Should I ask her about being gay, or wait for her to come to me?
Part of me wanted to tell her that I’d talked to Samantha and explain that I knew. I wanted to ask questions, to tell her I supported her no matter what …
It wasn’t the news I’d been expecting, but it was a huge relief. My daughter wasn’t receiving creepy pictures from anyone, and she, hopefully, wasn’t sexually active yet.
“Are you even listening?” Pam leaned over and flicked my ear like a childish school chum.
“Yeah …”
“Seriously! Get on there and find someone to hook up with tonight. It’ll help you get over Ben.”
“You think I should try to message him again?” I asked, thinking back on the last several messages I’d already sent. I’d tried to make them sound casual, but as I’d read them back last night, they’d stunk of desperation.
“Absolutely not,” Jerry cut in, carrying a stack of papers over to the copier. “If you do, I’ll personally come over to your house and disable your account. I still have the password, you know.”
Pam chimed in, “Jerry’s right, honey. We don’t chase …”
But my mind was still on Jerry’s words. I hadn’t changed the password yet. Stupid me.
I didn’t think he’d have the nerve or the audacity or the desire to log in and read my messages on there, but if he did …
Now, that would be embarrassing.
“This whole dating thing is stupid,” I said, reminding myself to log in and update the password as soon as I got home.
“It’s not. It’s fun. And it’s necessary.” Pam was still talking, but I drowned out the rest of the words as I shoved a pencil in the sharpener.
“I don’t think it’s necessary, per se,” Jerry pondered over the grinding noise. “But a social life is important. It’s good to have people to hang out with …”
Pam was nodding in agreement, but she wasn’t looking at me. She was staring at Jerry with this wanting look on her face a look full of desire. Jerry didn’t seem to notice.
I wanted to ask him who he hung out with in his spare time, but I bit my tongue. His love life wasn’t my business. And frankly, mine wasn’t his either.
“Pick someone you can have some fun with. A one-night stand, perhaps?” Pam suggested, pulling her eyes away from Jerry and zeroing back in on me.
“Yeah, maybe I will,” I lied.
***
Another late night where I couldn’t sleep. Another shitty frozen meal in bed.
Delaney was still at her father’s. I wanted to call her, tell her I missed her, ask her how she was feeling, beg her to open up, apologize for my role in the food fight … but I let it be.
Ben still hadn’t texted or called, and I’d avoided the dating site for days. But Pam’s words circled back: ‘pick someone you can have some fun with’.
I shoved the plastic container of food and several bottles of beer aside and sauntered over to my computer desk. I logged into my account, a small, desperate part of me still hoping Ben might have messaged me here instead of on my cell.
There were no messages from Ben. And the status on his profile revealed he hadn’t logged on in days.
Bummer.
No messages from him, but there were definitely ones from other guys – and a few attractive girls, too.
When Pam suggested a one-night stand, as much as I hated to admit it, one of the guys I’d friended online came to mind. MaxLove1985.
I’d looked at his profile a dozen times, and I scanned through his pictures again. He was shirtless in all of them. Shirtless Max in Cabo. Shirtless Max driving a boat. Shirtless Max lifting a sledgehammer. He was a construction worker, and in his mid-thirties and although he’d messaged me dozens of times already, I’d only responded twice. Not because I wasn’t attracted to him, but because his boldness made me blush.
He’d already sent a couple naked photos to my inbox. ‘Something to pleasure yourself with, baby.’
He was young and athletic. Handsome and muscular in that ridiculous way some men are. I’d never been drawn to that type – always searching for someone a little more flawed, a little more vulnerable. Someone like me.
I imagined Max (if that was even his real name) sending out mass dick-pics to every woman on that list.
I took a long chug of my lukewarm beer and typed out a message, trying not to eyeball the nudes above in the messenger box …
Hey. How are you?
It was totally lame, but what the hell else could I say? This man – all these guys – were ultimately strangers. I’d never been much good at small talk.
Max’s response came through immediately.