crew notice.” Flicking the light on, Rose nudged her into the bathroom, grabbed a clean cloth off the shelf.
“I’m going to puke.” With a surprising burst of energy, Blair shoved Rose out of the bathroom and slammed the door.
“Save some for Mr. Sperm’s shoes,” Rose called out. “A homecoming present.”
Blair’s voice was high, panicked, confused. “How can he do this to me?”
Then the retching started. Powerless, Rose leaned against the door, hands bunched into fists, and plotted.
If John thought he was going to waltz into the house like he owned it (which he didn’t, damn it, that was his aunt) and have Blair smile and fawn over him as if she hadn’t been crying alone every night, he’d be too dead to have another think coming.
“Well, at least you’ll be hungry for dinner,” Rose said when the vomiting finally stopped.
The door creaked open. Wiping her hair off her forehead, Blair leaned into the doorframe. “Now I’m all sweaty.”
“Tell him you were having hot sex with the neighbor,” Rose said. “No, don’t worry. I’ll tell him.”
“He just landed. If traffic’s light he could be here in an hour. Or less.” She rubbed her eyes. “My God, I have to shower. I’m ripe as a banana.”
“It’s past time he sniffed a real woman. The man needs to face up to reality.”
“I can’t risk it,” Blair said. “I can’t do this by myself. I just can’t.”
“First of all, better to know now what he can handle than later, when you’re really dependent on him. And second, you can handle it. Whatever it is, you can. You’re tougher than you think. Don’t let him get away with being horrible just because you think you need him so much.”
“I do need him. The baby needs a father. How can I ever afford college tuition by myself? Have you seen the annual growth rate of educational expenses?”
“While I’m sure your kid is a genius, even he or she won’t be going to college in the next two hours.” Rose pushed her back into the bathroom. “Go ahead, take your shower. It’ll make you feel better. I’ll see if I can come up with a vegan alternative to the cream sauce.”
“Oh, dinner. Rose, I’m so sorry, but I don’t think I can do it.”
Rose started to protest but thought better of it. Blair was right. As much as she hated to admit it, she couldn’t mediate this one. “Maybe tomorrow, then,” she said.
Blair peeked her head out, managed a weak smile. “You’re the best.”
Rose went back into the kitchen and decided she should let Mark off the hook. Too bad; she’d looked forward to making him squirm.
Not having his phone number, she slipped on her shoes and walked over to knock on the door.
A woman answered. “Oh, thank God. I thought you might be those curb painters coming back,” she said, holding out her hand. “I keep meaning to come over and introduce myself. Trixie Johnson.”
A smiling, tall woman, Mark’s mother looked like a throwback hippie to Rose’s eastern eyes: naturally gray hair cut short, tie-dyed T-shirt, baggy jeans and Birkenstocks. Her sandals, however, sported a floral purple pattern and were not held together with duct tape. Nevertheless, compared to Rose’s preppy mother, who ironed her pajamas and wouldn’t step out of the bathroom in the morning without her makeup on, Trixie seemed very au naturel. In a nice way. Relaxed, friendly, low-maintenance.
Rose shook her hand. “Rose Devlin.”
“Trouble with your car again?” Trixie asked.
“Oh, no. Nothing like that. I just needed to talk to Mark. It’s kind of embarrassing. You see, we invited him to dinner but…” Rose stopped herself, not sure how much she should say. Blair liked her privacy, and Trixie, though she appeared very sweet, didn’t look like the type to embrace polite ignorance. Her eyes were bright and sharp, scanning Rose’s body like somebody eager to help. “Blair has had a sudden change of plans. I wanted to ask Mark might be able to
“I’m going to puke.” With a surprising burst of energy, Blair shoved Rose out of the bathroom and slammed the door.
“Save some for Mr. Sperm’s shoes,” Rose called out. “A homecoming present.”
Blair’s voice was high, panicked, confused. “How can he do this to me?”
Then the retching started. Powerless, Rose leaned against the door, hands bunched into fists, and plotted.
If John thought he was going to waltz into the house like he owned it (which he didn’t, damn it, that was his aunt) and have Blair smile and fawn over him as if she hadn’t been crying alone every night, he’d be too dead to have another think coming.
“Well, at least you’ll be hungry for dinner,” Rose said when the vomiting finally stopped.
The door creaked open. Wiping her hair off her forehead, Blair leaned into the doorframe. “Now I’m all sweaty.”
“Tell him you were having hot sex with the neighbor,” Rose said. “No, don’t worry. I’ll tell him.”
“He just landed. If traffic’s light he could be here in an hour. Or less.” She rubbed her eyes. “My God, I have to shower. I’m ripe as a banana.”
“It’s past time he sniffed a real woman. The man needs to face up to reality.”
“I can’t risk it,” Blair said. “I can’t do this by myself. I just can’t.”
“First of all, better to know now what he can handle than later, when you’re really dependent on him. And second, you can handle it. Whatever it is, you can. You’re tougher than you think. Don’t let him get away with being horrible just because you think you need him so much.”
“I do need him. The baby needs a father. How can I ever afford college tuition by myself? Have you seen the annual growth rate of educational expenses?”
“While I’m sure your kid is a genius, even he or she won’t be going to college in the next two hours.” Rose pushed her back into the bathroom. “Go ahead, take your shower. It’ll make you feel better. I’ll see if I can come up with a vegan alternative to the cream sauce.”
“Oh, dinner. Rose, I’m so sorry, but I don’t think I can do it.”
Rose started to protest but thought better of it. Blair was right. As much as she hated to admit it, she couldn’t mediate this one. “Maybe tomorrow, then,” she said.
Blair peeked her head out, managed a weak smile. “You’re the best.”
Rose went back into the kitchen and decided she should let Mark off the hook. Too bad; she’d looked forward to making him squirm.
Not having his phone number, she slipped on her shoes and walked over to knock on the door.
A woman answered. “Oh, thank God. I thought you might be those curb painters coming back,” she said, holding out her hand. “I keep meaning to come over and introduce myself. Trixie Johnson.”
A smiling, tall woman, Mark’s mother looked like a throwback hippie to Rose’s eastern eyes: naturally gray hair cut short, tie-dyed T-shirt, baggy jeans and Birkenstocks. Her sandals, however, sported a floral purple pattern and were not held together with duct tape. Nevertheless, compared to Rose’s preppy mother, who ironed her pajamas and wouldn’t step out of the bathroom in the morning without her makeup on, Trixie seemed very au naturel. In a nice way. Relaxed, friendly, low-maintenance.
Rose shook her hand. “Rose Devlin.”
“Trouble with your car again?” Trixie asked.
“Oh, no. Nothing like that. I just needed to talk to Mark. It’s kind of embarrassing. You see, we invited him to dinner but…” Rose stopped herself, not sure how much she should say. Blair liked her privacy, and Trixie, though she appeared very sweet, didn’t look like the type to embrace polite ignorance. Her eyes were bright and sharp, scanning Rose’s body like somebody eager to help. “Blair has had a sudden change of plans. I wanted to ask Mark might be able to
Similar Books
