Triple Shot Bettys in Love

by Jody Gehrman

  “You lovebirds having fun?” she asked in a coy, ironic tone that made the question impossible to answer. Luckily, she didn’t wait for a response. “Geena, I’m so glad you could make it. Ben’s told me so much about you.”

  “Has he?”

  “Yee-ees.” She drew the word out into two syllables, all the while batting her thick, dark lashes. “We’ve known each other for years.”

  “Yeah, he told me that.” I instinctively took a step toward Ben and wrapped an arm around his waist. “Are you glad your family moved back to Sonoma?”

  She sipped her martini, then ran her tongue over her teeth in a thoughtful way, as if my polite, offhand inquiry required serious contemplation. “Well, it’s nothing like New York, of course, but Sonoma has its charms.” Her tone implied that Sonoma’s “charms” were primitive but quaint, like snake handling or starting a fire with a couple of sticks. “Benedict tells me you work in a coffee shop—is that right?”

  “Sort of. Triple Shot Betty’s. It’s a drive-through espresso stand.”

  “I wouldn’t last a second—I’m so claustrophobic.” She turned again to Ben. “Remember that time when our parents took us to the county fair? I completely lost it on the Ferris wheel!”

  She launched into a long anecdote, her eyes locked on Ben the whole time. She punctuated every other sentence with a husky laugh. I found myself mesmerized by her eyebrows; they were so perfectly shaped, so expertly groomed. They gave her the cool, polished elegance of a starlet from the forties. I promised myself to experiment with tweezing the second I got home.

  “Yeah,” Ben chuckled when her story finally ended. “Good times.”

  “Well, anyway, I’ll leave you two. Just wanted to say hi. And Geena, I’m really glad you came, especially since you had to come straight from work—what a drag!” Her eyes flitted for a microsecond over my outfit before landing again on my face with a thin smile.

  “Yeah, thanks for—” I almost said “inviting me” again, but saved myself just in time. “. . . having me.”

  As she walked away, almost as an afterthought, she grabbed Ben’s arm and kissed him quickly on the cheek. Kissed him! Where did she think we were, Paris? Ben, who looked nearly as startled as me, blushed. She just kept walking, apparently oblivious.

  “What was that about?” I asked, feeling distinctly queasy.

  “Oh, that’s just Sophie,” Ben said. “She’s a flirt. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  By then Sophie had reached the other side of the room, where Marcy freshened her martini. There, leaning against the bar, with at least two-thirds of the guys in the room staring at her sequined butt, she threw a quick glance over her shoulder—a quick, feline look of challenge intended for me alone.

  Saturday, December 20

  7:40 P.M.

  Tonight I found my mother doing some sort of samba while she fried ground beef and onions.

  “What’s up with you?” I asked.

  She beamed at me over her shoulder. Beamed at me. I haven’t seen my mother beam since . . . well, since way before Dad left, actually.

  “Are you going to answer?” I asked, suspicious.

  “I’m just in a good mood.”

  “Yeah, but why are you in such a good mood?”

  She sambaed over to a bottle of red wine on the counter and poured herself a glass. “Something good happened, that’s all.”

  “Something good like . . . ?”

  She sipped her vino, then pressed her lips together in an I’ve-got-a-secret-I’m-dying-to-tell-you smile. In that moment, she could have passed for a teenager. “Someone asked me out.”

  I knew I should be happy for her. Instead, visions of creepy stepfathers paraded through my brain, each one pausing to leer suggestively for the mug shot. It was one thing to put up with Dad’s arm charm, Jen, on weekends and holidays; it was something else entirely to consider harboring the enemy right here at home.

  “Geena,” Mom said, “don’t look like that . . .”

  “Don’t look like what?”

  “Like you just took a bite of my pâté.”

  Somehow, her stab at humor only made me more sullen.

  “Listen, it’s just a date, okay?” She came over and touched my cheek. “It’s not like he’s moving in or anything.”

  “What’s his name?” I asked, staring at my shoes.

  She paused. “You promise you won’t laugh?”

  I nodded.

  “Mungo MacMartin.”

  A nervous caw of laughter escaped before I could slap my hand over my mouth. “You are kidding, right?”

  She shook her head. “I know, it’s a weird name, but he’s Scottish. I think it’s kind of cute.”

  When I cocked an eyebrow, she hurried to shift the focus away from his cartoonish moniker. “He’s a really nice guy—or he seems like it, anyway. He coaches the girls’ soccer team at Sonoma State.”

  “That’s cool.” My tone was noncommittal.

  “Geena?”

  I looked at her. “Yeah?”

  “Try to keep an open mind, okay? Nothing like this has happened for me in ages, and it would really help me if you could just . . .” She trailed off.

  “Disappear?” I supplied helpfully.

  “No!” She looked horrified. “How can you even say that? No, just try not to hate him before you meet him, that’s all.”

  I looked back at my shoes. She pulled me into a hug. I didn’t want to be a brat, I really didn’t. If I was already living at Yale, a good three thousand miles away, my reaction would be totally different. But she had to understand that any man who entered the picture now was bound to be a threat. Even if he was the nicest, most congenial Mungo on the planet, his entry into our home, which was still rocking from Dad’s departure, couldn’t be taken lightly.

  Mom leaned away from me, her arms still wrapped around me, and tilted her head in a quizzical way. “What are you thinking?”

  I shrugged. “Soccer coach, huh? Does he wear a whistle?”

  “I doubt he’ll wear it to dinner,” she joked. Her face lit up in a luminous smile, and I thought, If he hurts her, I’ll kill him.

  I went to the fridge to hunt for something edible. There wasn’t much. I managed to find a lemon yogurt that wasn’t too far past its expiration date. As I shoveled spoonfuls into my mouth, I contemplated this new development. Mom was on the market again—she was experiencing the thrill of the hunt. Even if it was unnatural and wrong for old people to be indulging in lustful thoughts, I shouldn’t begrudge her the sparkle of a new romance, should I? Besides, maybe if she remembered what it was like, she’d be less uptight about Ben and me.

  “So, when’s this big date?” I asked.

  “Monday night.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Going out to dinner. He’ll pick me up here around seven. Will you be home?”

  This looked like the perfect moment to test my Mom-Gets-Some-I-Get-Some Hypothesis. “Don’t think so. Ben and I are going to the movies.”

  “Okay. Another time, then.”

  I decided to push my theory a little further. “I’m not sure when I’ll be home.”

  She shook some garlic salt into the pan, then dumped a bunch of spaghetti sauce on top of that. It sputtered and hissed maniacally. She frowned and turned the heat down.

  “Is that okay?”

  “Hmmm?” she asked absently.

  “I might be home late Monday.”

  “Isn’t it a school night?”

  “Earth to Mom—Christmas break!”

  “Yeah, okay.” She started a pot of water boiling for pasta.

  I couldn’t resist adding, “Maybe I’ll just stay the night at Ben’s.”

  Her head swiveled in my direction with enough speed and elasticity to give her an Exorcist air. “What did you just say?”

  I laughed. “Nothing. Never mind.”

  Well, at least I’d established how much I could milk the Mungo factor.

  Sunday, December 21<
br />
  9:45 P.M.

  This morning I was like, “Triple Shot Bettys Reunion! Break out the caffeine, baby, because the Wonder-Trio is back!” Amber, Hero, and I were all set for an extra-long shift at TSB—the first time we’ve worked together since Hero left for boarding school in August. Amber and I needed extra cash so we could celebrate the birth of Christ by wracking up debt on crappy consumer goods (table that rant for another day). Hero, of course, didn’t need a dime, but she wanted to hang with us, so we all crammed into the closet-sized espresso stand and cranked up the tunes.

  We’d been having a massively fabulous time for a couple hours when I saw something that made me officially hate the world. Sophie De Luca drove up in a Mercedes convertible. It was silver, sleek, shiny, and flawless just like her. Marcy Adams sat in the backseat with PJ and Dog Berry. Riding shotgun was none other than Ben Bettaglia.

  Cue screeching alarms: reet, reet, reet!

  “Hello, Geena.” Sophie beamed up at me, her face half hidden by an enormous pair of Gucci sunglasses. Her smooth tone did little to mask the smug triumph just under the surface.

  “Hey, Sophie. Nice ride.” I had to work very hard at controlling my expression.

  “It’s Sophie’s birthday today,” Ben informed me. “Look what she got!” He gestured at the car, obviously impressed.

  “Benedict!” Sophie reached over and slapped his arm playfully. “Don’t go telling everyone! People will think I’m spoiled.”

  “Oooh, yeah,” I said. “Wouldn’t want that, would we, Benedict?”

  Behind me, Amber made a subtle gagging sound.

  Sophie touched up her perfect lips in the rearview mirror with a tube of MAC lipstick. “I’ll take a double macchiato, please. What do you guys want? I’m paying.”

  Everyone else ordered. I gritted my teeth and jabbed violently at the cash register while Hero and Amber went to work making the drinks. Hero shot me burning looks of sympathy. Amber leaned in close and whispered, “You just say the word, and I’ll unleash the power of Macchiato con Tabasco.”

  “Tempting, but no,” I muttered.

  “Fine. Wimp.”

  I turned back to the window. “That’ll be sixteen fifty.”

  Sophie reached for her purse, but Ben (a.k.a. “Benedict”) reached across her and handed me a twenty instead.

  “Keep the change,” he said, grinning up at me as if his three-dollar-fifty-cent tip would surely make up for the sickly sludge of jealousy coursing through my veins.

  Amber delivered their drinks, all the while giving Sophie major stink-eye.

  Ben, genius that he is, sensed the tension. He threw me a look that was part apology, part you’re-my-girl, and said, “Call me when you get off.”

  As they drove away, I found myself staring after them, hating the sight of Sophie’s gorgeous dark hair fanning out behind her in the breeze.

  Amber spoke first. “G, don’t even trip. Ben’s so not into her.”

  “Oh, yeah,” I sneered, “why would he be? She’s only perfect in every way. Wait—weren’t you just warning me on Friday that she’s trying to steal him?”

  “Oh, she’s trying to steal him, all right,” Amber told me. “But Ben’s all about you. He won’t look twice at that skank.”

  “I’m sure they’re just friends,” Hero added, sipping primly at her soy chai.

  Despite their reassurances, I couldn’t ignore the queasy feeling that clung to my insides the rest of the day.

  Monday, December 22

  11:45 P.M.

  Ben picked me up tonight in his faded yellow Volvo. That thing’s so rust-eaten and dilapidated, it’s like every puff of exhaust is sure to be its last; I believe it dates back to the Mesozoic period.

  But here’s the weird thing: Two seconds after he’d pulled up, just as I was applying a little lip gloss, I glanced out the window and thought I was seeing double. Parked right behind him in the driveway was another prehistoric Volvo, this one an ugly, mixed-too-many-colors-together brown.

  Suddenly Mom was peering over my shoulder, smelling of super-charged lavender. “Look! Our guys are talking.”

  Ben had climbed out of the driver’s seat and was now conversing with the other Volvo owner amiably, his hands shoved in his pockets. I decided to ignore the “our guys” comment, since it was just a little too sugary-cute for my taste.

  “That must be Mungo,” I said, trying to keep my voice neutral.

  She nodded, then started fussing with her hair, using the window as a mirror. “What do you think?”

  I studied the man in our driveway. He was a couple inches shorter than Ben, with pale, thinning hair and a pinkish face. He was wearing a beige cotton sweater and crisp new jeans. The look didn’t scream mother-murdering-psycho-killer, but then, you can’t be too careful these days.

  “Seems okay from here.”

  She snorted. “Try to restrain your enthusiasm.”

  “What do you want me to do? Fling myself at him screaming Daddy?”

  “Geena.” There was enough hurt in those two syllables to make me regret my acerbic tone.

  “Sorry,” I said. “He looks nice. Really.”

  “How’s this outfit? Okay?”

  I turned around and surveyed my mother. She had on a knee-length denim skirt, a red cashmere cowlneck sweater, and red patent-leather slingbacks. Her auburn hair was glossy, blown dry into a smooth shoulder-length bob. I could tell she’d spent some time on it, maybe even gotten some highlights yesterday at the salon. I had to admit, she looked better than I’d seen her look in ages. If Mungo was responsible, I should at least make an effort to be civil.

  “You look totally great,” I said.

  She snickered nervously. “Seriously?”

  “Yeah, seriously.”

  The doorbell chimed then, and we froze, staring at each other for a panicky beat. Since Dad left last year, we’d inhabited a veritable boy-free zone. Suddenly there were two flesh-and-blood males on our doorstep, demanding entrance.

  “You want me to get it?” I asked.

  Her eyebrows arched. “Would that be weird?”

  “I live here, don’t I?”

  She nodded. “Okay, you get it. I’m going to down a swig of wine.” She scurried toward the kitchen, then stopped. “Not that I’m implying alcohol is an acceptable remedy for nerves.”

  I waved her away and headed for the foyer. Checking briefly in the hallway mirror for nose shine or stray hairs, I took a deep breath and swung the door open.

  “Hi, Ben.” I took in his familiar face before letting my gaze slide over to the man next to him. “You’re Mungo, right?”

  He offered a pink, freckled hand, and I shook it.

  “That’s right. I suppose you’re Geena.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  The Scottish accent threw me a little, though it shouldn’t have—Mom said something about that, didn’t she? Anyway, I liked it. He sounded like someone from Trainspotting. I wondered fleetingly if he was a heroin addict, but he looked far too pink-cheeked and earnest for that. Then again, Ewan Mc-Gregor looked positively edible in that movie, and he was a total junkie.

  I let them in and headed automatically for the kitchen; the second I passed through the archway, though, something trés bizarre happened. There was Mom in her underwear—an electric blue thong, of all things—flapping her arms madly in the universal do not enter signal. I sucked in my breath, shot her a quick WTF look, and did an abrupt about-face, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision with Mungo.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled. “I forgot—the floor’s still wet in here. Why don’t we go to the . . .” But where could we go? Our kitchen and living room are connected, so all that left me room-wise was bedroom, office, closet, or bathroom. A hilarious vision of Ben, Mungo, and me kicking it on the edge of the tub almost set me off on a violent giggling fit. I pursed my lips and started leading them back down the hall, retracing our steps. “Why don’t we wait out on the porch? I’m sure Mo
m will be out in a minute.”

  “Uhh, okay.” I could hear the confusion in Ben’s voice, but he knew better than to question me openly when I was this high-strung.

  “It’s such a nice evening,” I trilled as we stepped out onto the front porch. Actually, a dense fog had rolled in and the dank air felt bone-chilling, but I ignored this and gestured expansively to the porch swing. “Please, have a seat. Can I get anyone a drink? Mungo, you want a beer or a glass of wine?”

  “Wouldn’t mind a beer, if you’ve got one.” He looked cheered by the prospect.

  “Ben? Soda or something?”

  Ben shook his head. “No, thanks.”

  I made a beeline for the kitchen. Soon as I walked in, Mom turned to me in bug-eyed horror and we bent our heads together in a whispered conference.

  “What are you doing?”

  “What did you tell him?” I noticed she had her skirt in one hand and a spray bottle filled with yellowish liquid in the other.

  “That my mother’s a lunatic and she’s prancing around the kitchen half-nekkid!”

  Her hands seized my shoulders in a death grip. “You didn’t?!”

  I rolled my eyes. “Please, I have a rep to protect here too, remember? You mind explaining . . . ?” I gestured at her attire.

  “I went to pour the wine, but I was nervous and it spilled. Then I tried to get the stain out, but I grabbed the wrong bottle and bleached it instead.” She held up her skirt, now sporting a fist-sized white splotch.

  Isn’t the upside to aging supposed to be acquired wisdom? At that moment, my mother looked about as wise as a fourth grader who’d peed her pants.

  “Why didn’t you just run and change?” I asked.

  “I started to, but then you guys were in the hall. I was trapped!”

  I massaged my forehead with one hand. “They’re outside now. Go get something on.”

  She nibbled her lip; otherwise, she didn’t move.

  “What now?” I demanded.