support from here on out but won’t take the check? I think you should cash it. God knows you could use the money if you’ve been supporting yourself and your daughter for six years on a teaching salary.”
Tara looked at her plain, well-worn furniture with longing. “Yeah. It would be nice to have the extra cash.”
Rebecca muttered, “And get some new curtains. Those things are fugly. Not just ugly. Fugly. ”
“New curtains are hardly what child support is for,” Tara said quietly.
Rebecca tugged on Tara’s other foot and said, “But this is back child support. This is paying you back for all the things you paid for that he should have helped with. Cash the check, girl, and take us all out to dinner next month.”
Tara frowned and thought about all Michael had missed, everything she’d done alone that he should have been there to help with. Diapers, two a.m. feedings, and potty training. Then she thought about first words, first steps, and Maddie’s first beautiful little smile. Michael owed her. But he owed Madelynn too. And maybe that’s what he’d been thinking when he sent her that check. Tara shrugged and said, “I’ll think about it. It’s crossed my mind lately.” She paused for a moment and then confessed, “I almost tore it up.”
Rebecca looked at Tara like she’d grown a second head. “If you were going to tear it up and didn’t, your subconscious was obviously planning on cashing it from the start. Just cash it and get some new curtains in here. I mean, damn, girl. These things are a Greek tragedy. I’ve been staring at them for two years, and at this point, I just want to set them on fire. Where the hell did you get them, anyway?”
“They were on sale!” Tara defended. She eyed the curtains. They weren’t that ugly. Okay, maybe they were. “Fine!” Tara threw her hands up, resigned. Rebecca would never leave her alone unless she did it, and now she had two other women to harp at her about it. So she just caved. “I’ll cash the damned check. Happy now?”
“Yes!” they replied in unison.
Rebecca finished the last coat of polish on Tara’s toenails, started packing up her pedicure set, and said, “Well ladies, we’re all painted with whore-red toenail polish, and we’ve all got club clothes with us, right?” At their nods, she danced a little and asked in a sing-song voice, “Who wants to get a cab and go to Margaritaville?”
All four women jumped up, laughed, and ran to get ready.
* * * *
It was karaoke night at Graffiti’s bar, and the girls immediately put their name on the list to sing Good-bye Earl . A short guy with blond hair pelted out the words to 500 Miles on the stage. Tara cringed. The bad thing about karaoke was that anyone could sing. It was full and a little difficult to find a table. But it wasn’t packed, and they managed to sit down at a booth in a cozy back corner.
Sara glanced around and said “Ladies, I think we need a shot of tequila.” When they groaned, she protested, “Think about it! Can anyone tell me the last time you did a shot of tequila?”
Rebecca looked disbelievingly at Sara. “The reason you don’t remember is because last time we didn’t do a shot of tequila. We did about ten shots of tequila.”
Callie laughed and said, “If I recall correctly, there were more than ten. And that was at Sara’s bachelorette party with that stripper. What was his name?”
“Sam the Slamma’,” Sara answered, laughing.
Rebecca waved the waitress over and ordered tequila shots for them. “For an hour or so I was convinced that Sam the Slamma’ was Mr. Right.” She laughed and sipped her daiquiri. “My hangover the next morning reminded me that Mr. Right doesn’t exist.”
Tara swirled the ice in her piña colada. “Oh my God! There he is!”
Their heads swiveled in unison, and someone said “Who?”
“Mr. Right!” Tara pointed to a man sitting at the bar talking with another man. “He’s talking to Prince
Tara looked at her plain, well-worn furniture with longing. “Yeah. It would be nice to have the extra cash.”
Rebecca muttered, “And get some new curtains. Those things are fugly. Not just ugly. Fugly. ”
“New curtains are hardly what child support is for,” Tara said quietly.
Rebecca tugged on Tara’s other foot and said, “But this is back child support. This is paying you back for all the things you paid for that he should have helped with. Cash the check, girl, and take us all out to dinner next month.”
Tara frowned and thought about all Michael had missed, everything she’d done alone that he should have been there to help with. Diapers, two a.m. feedings, and potty training. Then she thought about first words, first steps, and Maddie’s first beautiful little smile. Michael owed her. But he owed Madelynn too. And maybe that’s what he’d been thinking when he sent her that check. Tara shrugged and said, “I’ll think about it. It’s crossed my mind lately.” She paused for a moment and then confessed, “I almost tore it up.”
Rebecca looked at Tara like she’d grown a second head. “If you were going to tear it up and didn’t, your subconscious was obviously planning on cashing it from the start. Just cash it and get some new curtains in here. I mean, damn, girl. These things are a Greek tragedy. I’ve been staring at them for two years, and at this point, I just want to set them on fire. Where the hell did you get them, anyway?”
“They were on sale!” Tara defended. She eyed the curtains. They weren’t that ugly. Okay, maybe they were. “Fine!” Tara threw her hands up, resigned. Rebecca would never leave her alone unless she did it, and now she had two other women to harp at her about it. So she just caved. “I’ll cash the damned check. Happy now?”
“Yes!” they replied in unison.
Rebecca finished the last coat of polish on Tara’s toenails, started packing up her pedicure set, and said, “Well ladies, we’re all painted with whore-red toenail polish, and we’ve all got club clothes with us, right?” At their nods, she danced a little and asked in a sing-song voice, “Who wants to get a cab and go to Margaritaville?”
All four women jumped up, laughed, and ran to get ready.
* * * *
It was karaoke night at Graffiti’s bar, and the girls immediately put their name on the list to sing Good-bye Earl . A short guy with blond hair pelted out the words to 500 Miles on the stage. Tara cringed. The bad thing about karaoke was that anyone could sing. It was full and a little difficult to find a table. But it wasn’t packed, and they managed to sit down at a booth in a cozy back corner.
Sara glanced around and said “Ladies, I think we need a shot of tequila.” When they groaned, she protested, “Think about it! Can anyone tell me the last time you did a shot of tequila?”
Rebecca looked disbelievingly at Sara. “The reason you don’t remember is because last time we didn’t do a shot of tequila. We did about ten shots of tequila.”
Callie laughed and said, “If I recall correctly, there were more than ten. And that was at Sara’s bachelorette party with that stripper. What was his name?”
“Sam the Slamma’,” Sara answered, laughing.
Rebecca waved the waitress over and ordered tequila shots for them. “For an hour or so I was convinced that Sam the Slamma’ was Mr. Right.” She laughed and sipped her daiquiri. “My hangover the next morning reminded me that Mr. Right doesn’t exist.”
Tara swirled the ice in her piña colada. “Oh my God! There he is!”
Their heads swiveled in unison, and someone said “Who?”
“Mr. Right!” Tara pointed to a man sitting at the bar talking with another man. “He’s talking to Prince
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