by Ann Denton
I smile as I think about her. I hope she’s not getting up to trouble right now. She’d gone and bought herself a new phone and a tablet so she could do some online shopping tonight. I mutter to myself, “She’s probably buying fucking bamboo toilet paper—”
“Bamboo toilet paper?” My sister, Olivia, pulls up a chair next to me. Olivia is a mechanic, normally covered in oil stains and wearing a ponytail at the nape of her neck. But not in my mother’s house. Nope. In here, she isn’t even a closet lesbian. She’s Irma Jean’s straight-A, straight-backed daughter with a button up shirt and freshly ironed slacks.
My car-wrinkled black maxi dress doesn’t compare. I self-consciously smooth out the wrinkles as Olivia smiles at me and sits. We look a bit alike, with the brown hair and eyes and straight brows. But she’s definitely got a hard edge to her. And she’s a couple inches taller than me. She’s also way more sure of herself than I’ve ever been.
“Is bamboo toilet paper really a thing?” Olivia asks.
I roll my eyes. “Apparently. Heather saw it on some show. It’s expensive as all get out and supposed to be like wiping with a cloud. She’s obsessed with it.”
“Of course, she is,” Olivia chuckles. “When you’re that big of an asshole, you need a gentle wipe.”
My dad actually snickers from his seat.
My mother calls out from the kitchen. “You cursing in my house, Katie Ann?”
I call out, “No ma’am.”
“You lying, too?”
“It was Olivia!”
My sister pipes up and yells over me, “Was not!”
“Was too!”
My mother hip checks the door and walks in with a heaping platter of fried chicken and baloney. My mouth starts to water.
Mom gives me the stink eye. “You feeling rebellious today?”
“No ma’am.” I stare at the table. I learned a long time ago not to look to my dad for help. He’ll just sit there and let Mom dole out whatever she wants. Usually, it’s a big steaming helping of criticism.
Mom gives me a stare but then goes back into the kitchen to bring out something else.
Olivia leans into me and whispers, "Heads up, she knows. Sophie heard."
Bile seeps into my throat. My stomach starts to churn as my mother brings in a bowl of mashed potatoes. My gaze flickers toward her against my will, and I see a fiery gleam in mom's eyes.
I might be thirty, but I slink down in my chair like a six-year-old when I see that look.
"Dad, I might need to go outside to get a breath of fresh air."
My dad looks up from his tablet and raises his eyebrows. "Katie, it's a hundred degrees out there with seventy-five percent humidity right now." He takes a swig from his glass of whiskey. Ice cubes clink in the glass as I bite my lip and try to think of some justification for going outside into the Jurassic Period weather that is an Oklahoman evening.
I look at Olivia and beg her with my eyes to help me out. She just shrugs and takes another sip of her sweet tea. “You ratted me out about the cursing. I’m being pretty generous with the heads up.”
I lean closer and whisper to her, “What exactly has mom heard?"
"What exactly are you worried I've heard young lady?" My mother's voice comes from directly behind me.
I freeze in my seat, my limbs locked up like one of those stupid fainting goats. Fuck. She must've gone around through the kitchen into the living room so she could attack from behind.
My mom strolls around the table and stands behind her chair. She eyes me like some megalomaniac CEO. Or the devil about to decide which layer of hell to send me to.
When I don't answer, she picks at her bright red nails and says casually, "Your other two sisters couldn't make it tonight. Sophie had a volleyball game, and Charlotte is working.”
There it is. The dig. I cringe. She knows. She knows Heather pulled me out of work today and that I didn’t go back. I briefly wonder if she’s hacked my email. But Mom doesn’t do technology.
I glance over at Dad. He’s still swiping through his tablet. Oblivious. I’m gonna hazard a guess it he didn’t hack my email unless she threatened to take his whiskey away.
I give Mom a weak smile. “How’s Sophie’s team doing?”
My mother takes her seat and smooths her skirt, folding her hands on the table. "Let's say grace first."
My father puts down his tablet and takes one more drink as if he needs it to get through prayer. He thinks he needs it to get through life in general, so why would prayer be any different?
I fold my hands and bow my head. God, please let me make it through this dinner without getting my head bitten off and without spilling the beans. My mother does not need to know Heather won the lotto.
Heather might be able to stand up to the woman—she started telling her off when we were twelve and got in trouble for wearing an inappropriate shade of lipstick—but I sure as hell can’t. Mom would ban me from the family. Dad, I could live without. He’s not a bad guy, but he’s about as useful as a screen door on a submarine. But the girls? Mom would never let my sisters talk to me again. Olivia might rebel and still talk to me on the down low, but the others? They’re young. Less defiant, like me.
Mom wraps up grace and passes around some fried chicken and fried baloney. “I saw Mrs. Casem today.”
I can tell by her tone that this is the lead in to my doom. So, I simply swallow the ping-pong ball stuck in my throat and say, “Mmhmm.”
“She’s friends with a woman named Francine, who was at your office today. Apparently, Francine was about to have some work done when—and I quote, ‘Some blue-haired hussy burst in and dragged off the dental assistant.’” Mom stares pointedly at me, her brown eyes as dark and dangerous as quicksand.
I trace old scratch marks on the dining table. “It wasn’t exactly like that.”
“What was it like?”
“Heather had an emergency,” I say weakly.
My shoulders collapse in a little further. For some reason, being at my mother’s house always makes me feel like I’m on the verge of being sent to my room. Maybe because I spent a good chunk of my childhood there, or else with my nose in the corner. I couldn’t put a toe out of line without her cracking the whip.
My mother’s never been one for ‘shenanigans’ as she calls them. Heather’s always been a master at shenanigans. It’s probably why I fell into bestie love with her at first sight when I was six years old and we moved into this house. She was three days from turning seven and had been climbing up the gutter on her house to reach a Frisbee stuck on her roof. She hadn’t even screamed when she’d fallen and broken her arm. I’d thought she was the bravest kid I ever met as we drove her to the ER because her own parents weren’t home.
“Heather,” Mom shakes her head. “That girl is a living, breathing emergency. She should come with flashing lights and a siren so you can get out of the way,” my mother rolls her eyes as she serves the carrots. “Homer, you haven’t put salad on your plate.” She pushes the salad bowl back toward my father. Mom’s a real multi-tasking nagger. She can juggle nagging all five of us at once.
Her eyes flick back to me. “Why did Francine tell Mrs. Casem that you walked out and quit your job?”
I can feel the blush take over my cheeks unbidden. Fucking fuck. For whatever reason, I didn’t figure mom would find out the same day. I thought I’d have awhile to think of something reasonable. Something that was not a lotto win. Of course, she’d find out though, it’s Tulsa—god-damned biggest small town there ever was. Shocking news travels faster than a lightning bolt. Shit. I chew my lip and glance at Olivia.
My sister shrugs. There’s not much she can do to save me.
Mom sniffs, “If you think for one second, you’re gonna move back in here—”
“I’m not.” I’m just as horrified by that thought as she looks.
“What in God’s good name were you thinking? Quitting a decent job—”
“I’m … starting my own business?” I
t comes out as a question.
Mother narrows her eyes. “And how are you gonna pull that off?”
I gulp. “I … got a loan.”
My father chimes in for once. “A loan? Well, that’s awful professional of you, honey.”
I nod in thanks.
Mom’s not convinced. “A loan for what?”
I rub my lips together, already anticipating her reaction. “An event planning company.”
“Event planning? Like weddings?”
I nod and take a bite of hot corn. The jalapeño’s too strong and my tongue starts to burn. I take a gulp of water and I nod as tears come to my eyes.
“You know that’s not a real job, right? That’s a hobby for those women who marry rich men and want to say they do something other than drink mimosas and get manicures all day. There’s not real money in that. You planning on getting married? Is there some guy you haven’t told me about? I know you hide those men you date from me. Both of you.”
Anger boils in the bottom of my stomach. But right beside it is despair. I’ve always wanted this. Always.
Olivia’s hand sneaks under the table to squeeze mine. But she knows better than to start a war with Mom. We can’t win.
So, I paste a smile on my face, blink away the tears that I now have to pretend are solely from the jalepeños, and say, “Dinner’s amazing. You’ve outdone yourself.”
My mother sniffs but turns her attention from me to her food. She can’t help but have the last word, though. “Mark my words, you’re gonna regret this.”
Mark my words, Mom. No. I’m not.
Chapter Three
We’ve signed papers. It’s official. I have a loan for $50,000.00 for my new company, Mark the Moments, LLC. I don’t really know why that LLC bit is in there, but lawyers … they talk, I nod. Things get written down.
But now, I have a little sheet of paper in my purse that says that’s the name of my company. Mine. Elation keeps rolling through my stomach. Like pretty little bubbles. It shows up, fills me with wonder, then gets popped by worry the next second. Still, this has to be the best day of my life.
After the loan was done, Heather asked me to stay for other lotto-related, business stuff. I agreed, and we moved from minor loan lawyer’s office to the big corner office, where a very serious forty-something man in a dark suit started talking. I agreed to go with Heather, not knowing that all the other money stuff would take hours. Hours. And more hours.
I look at the clock. It’s been five hours, to be exact. In five hours, Doc Stife and I could have pulled six teeth. I’m not used to all this sitting still and just jibber jabbering. I have to move. I have to take a break. My head is spinning. I leave the lawyer’s office and walk into his reception area.
His big-haired receptionist gives me a sympathetic smile and asks, “Need anything? Coffee? Water?”
I ask for water as I rub my temples. My brain is fried. There are all sorts of legal terms floating around in my head. Living will. Pourover trust. IRA. Investments. All kinds of words I’ve never had to think about before. Making $13.50 an hour doesn’t leave a lotta room for retirement options. It barely leaves enough room for me to decide between a can of green beans or a can of corn at the grocery store. And now Heather’s gotta juggle all this crap. It’s like walking into a forest and being told, “Go on, hunt your dinner,” and being handed a bow and arrow for the first time ever. People with money live in a whole different world.
I envy her, but then again, I don’t. Her do-nothing aunt has already hit her up for money. She had to yell at her neighbor and two of her cousins after they saw her name in the local online news and came over trying to get ‘loans.’ According to the lawyer, that’s just the beginning. Fake relatives will start crawling out of the woodwork looking for handouts.
I sigh.
This lotto shit should be fun. But this lawyer stuff this afternoon is not fun.
“Everything alright?” a sweet tenor voice asks. I glance up to see a walking cream-pie. That’s Heather’s term for the guys who look so good your panties get wet just by making eye contact.
This guy looks like Barbie’s boyfriend. He’s got short blond hair swept over to one side. It still sticks up in spots, but in that adorable mussed, just-rolled-out-of-bed way that guys can pull off, but no woman can. His eyes are a pale blue. He has some scruff on his face and the scruff has a hint of red in it, which only makes him even hotter, especially since the scruff contrasts the crisp white shirt and ironed pants he’s wearing. He has a hint of don’t-care on top of his professional, preppy look. The one downside is that he definitely looks younger than me. Shit. Men are only as ripped and in shape as he is in their early twenties. I just turned thirty last week. The yum factor for guys in their thirties goes way down—thanks corporate America for your shitty desk jobs. I finger my brown hair as I eye his pecs.
The hot young dude smirks down at me. Shit. He probably realizes I’ve been checking him out. I flush with embarrassment and move my eyes from him to the floor.
“Yup, everything’s fine,” I squeak in answer to the question he asked.
“You look a little flushed,” he leans forward, and I smell mint gum. Mint gum triggers a Pavlovian response in me. I automatically think about kissing. It’s what my first boyfriend chewed obsessively every time we kissed. Justin even drank mouthwash before he’d see me. He was totally sophomore boy, first-relationship paranoid about having bad breath. My eyes zero in on this hottie’s lips. Not too thick, not too thin. Perfectly biteable.
I shake my head, even though I know I’m red as a beet. “It’s just overwhelming in there.”
“My brother being a dick?” the guy asks.
My eyes fly up and meet his. “That’s your brother?” I jerk my head at the lawyer’s office. I don’t even remember the guy’s name in there. Welsh? Walch?
Hot guy extends his hand, “Danny Walsh.”
I extend mine. When our fingers touch, a tingle runs through me. I’m not sure if it’s my intuition or my lust. All I know is my panties are in for a second round of soaking. Damn. I almost forget to tell Danny my name. “I’m Katie. McPherson. Yup.” I cringe. I just said yup. For no fucking reason.
“So, Katie,” Danny smiles—it’s strange how good my name sounds on his lips, “What are you here for today that’s got you so upset?”
I shake my head, “I’m just moral support for a friend. There’s just a lot for her to take in.”
“Ah,” Danny nods knowingly. “Divorce?”
“What? No. Um. Inheritance stuff.” That’s as close to the truth as I can manage for a stranger. A hot stranger, but still.
“I’m sorry for her loss,” Danny says, assuming someone’s died. His hand cups my shoulder, encasing it completely. And even though he’s just being sympathetic, now my mind is stuck on repeat thinking about how thick his fingers are.
Maybe that’s why I don’t correct him.
The receptionist walks up at that moment and hands me my water. I think she had to walk to the polar ice caps, chip some ice, melt it, and then come back. That’s how long she took. But I don’t say anything. It wouldn’t do any good. I just smile and take the cup. I take a sip. Lukewarm. Gross.
“I assume you’ve already had the funeral, but if not, can I suggest an end-of life celebration?” Danny says.
“What’s that?”
Danny gestures toward the couch in the reception area and we sit together. He explains, “I work for a company that plans parties and events celebrating someone’s life. We could help you. Like, for my aunt, we went to her favorite spot on her running route in tennis shoes. And we all walked the path she normally ran, drinking chai lattes because those were her favorite.”
My eyes well up. What a wonderful job. He must be a really thoughtful guy if that’s the sorta’ work he does. Helping people smile through the pain. “That sounds amazing. The celebration side. But, I’m so sorry about your aunt.”
Danny’s eyes get a bit misty and he nods,
acknowledging me. “She was great. Practically raised me after our parents …” he trails off.
My hand is on his arm before I can blink. I give a little squeeze. He’s an orphan! Just like Heather. Poor sweet thing. “I’m so sorry!”
Danny leans in—
“Danny, are you lying about mom and dad again?” a harsh voice says behind me. The lawyer, Mr. Walsh, glares down at Danny. His glasses have fallen down the bridge of his crooked nose. He crosses his arms and radiates anger down on us.
Beside him, Heather’s eyes flicker between Danny and me.
My eyes are on the paunchy lawyer. He and Danny look nothing alike. But then my brain registers what Mr. Walsh said. Lying? My hand snaps back to my stomach. Lying again? He said lying again. Like this is a thing.
My eyes fly to Danny. He looks defensive. That must mean it’s true.
Danny glares at his brother and stands. “I didn’t lie!”
“I heard you talking funerals and acting like they were dead!”
“I never said they were—”
“Of course you didn’t. Not outright.” The lawyer shakes his salt and pepper head. “Get in my office.”
An uncomfortable stare off follows filled with all kinds of facial expressions only family members pull on one another. With their age gap, Lawyer-What’s-His-Name Walsh looks like he could almost be Danny’s dad. I mean, he could if he’d had Danny when he was like eighteen.
I share a glance with Heather, uncomfortable and a little mortified that I was apparently attracted to a pathological liar. That would be my luck. I’ve always had the worst taste in guys. Heather’s always telling me I should let her pick guys for me instead. She might be fucking right.
Heather comes up next to me and bumps my shoulder with hers. I think she means to be supportive, but I’m just doubly humiliated she saw me cougaring up a liar.
Danny steps toward me. “I wasn’t trying to lie—”
“My office,” Mr. Walsh says; his voice brooks no argument.
Danny’s shoulders sink and he trots off, closing the door quietly behind him.
