“Yeah. So say yes.”
She kisses me—fast and hard, the way I like it. Then she hops off the bed because Ronan is winding up to full volume.
“Yes.”
13
At six p.m. Saturday night, I stand in Chelsea’s foyer, wearing black slacks, a gray button-down shirt, and a black jacket. Chelsea is still upstairs getting dressed. I didn’t go to my prom, but if I had, I imagine it would’ve felt something like this. Eager excitement. Thrilling possibilities. It’s a new, rare feeling and I kind of like it.
When a knock comes from outside, I open the door—and there, before me, stands the kid whisperer. Luckily, she was good with short notice.
“Hey, Mom.”
My mother is a tiny woman—five foot nothing, one hundred pounds, exotic gray-blue eyes that see through all types of bullshit, and a timelessly attractive face. What she lacks in physical stature she more than makes up for in a supersized personality. She flings herself at me, arms around my neck. “Honeybear! I’ve missed you!”
Out of the corner of my eye I spot Rory and Raymond, two sides of the same snickering coin. Raymond elbows his brother. “Honeybear? ”
Internally I sigh. This could get ugly.
Behind my mother, Owen, her long-term boyfriend, walks in, hauling overloaded shopping bags in both hands. Owen’s in his fifties, sports a noticeable beer belly, and has been just a hair or two away from totally bald for years. Together, they’re an odd-looking couple—the kind who would make people say, Is she really going out with him? But Owen is a hell of a guy—patient, kind, hardworking—and he’s worshipped the ground my mother walks on since the day they met.
He places one bag on the ground and shakes my hand. “Good to see you, Jake.”
“Oh!” my mother exclaims, the Alabama accent she’s never totally lost shining through, “I have to get the other two bags in the car—can’t forget them.”
Owen taps the air with his hand. “I got ’em, G. Take it easy.”
The kids, minus Ronan, are lined up at the entrance to the den. Riley holds Regan on her hip. “That them?” my mother asks me, nodding her chin.
“That’s them.”
She approaches them slowly, regarding each one by one. “Hey there, children. I’m Jake’s momma and your babysitter for the night. You can call me Gigi.” She hooks her thumb over her shoulder. “And that’s Owen.”
“What’s in the bags?” Rosaleen asks.
“Well, aren’t you just adorable on legs.” My mother crouches down to eye level with her. “In the bags are what we’ll be doin’ tonight. Ingredients for all kinds of cookies. Chocolate chip, sugar, peanut butter bliss, and some that haven’t even been invented yet.”
Two of the five lick their lips.
My mother stands back up and turns to Riley. “You’re Riley?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Any allergies in this bunch that I should be aware of?”
“No, Gigi, we don’t have any allergies.”
“Perfect!” She walks down the line and stands before Rory. His mouth is set and his eyes squint appraisingly. “You’re Rory?”
“Yeah.”
“I hear you’re the tough one.”
“You heard right.”
She folds her arms. “You ever heard of salmonella poisoning, Rory?”
He thinks for a moment. “You get it from, like, raw eggs, right?”
“That’s right. You know what’s in raw cookie dough?”
“Eggs?” Rory asks—still sounding like a smartass with the one short word.
“Yep. So, maybe since you’re so tough, you can play Russian roulette with salmonella and be our dough taster. What do you think?”
And he cracks a smile. “Sure.”
“All right, then! Everyone grab a bag and show me where the kitchen is.”
They do as they’re told and follow my mother with her cookie bags like she’s the Pied Piper. All except Rosaleen, who stays in the foyer with me. I move to the bottom of the staircase, one arm resting on the oak railing. Waiting.
Then Chelsea appears on the landing. And it’s—boom—instant slow motion. Like every cheesy fucking teen movie from the eighties that I never watched. Her royal-blue dress swishes as she descends, giving teasing glimpses of creamy thigh. The soft fabric cinches at her waist and the deep V of her neckline exposes a tantalizing hint of perfect, pale cleavage. Her curled, glossy hair bounces with each step . . . and so do her boobs.
Rosaleen’s little blond head swivels from me to her aunt, then back to me. “Are you gonna kiss her?” she asks curiously.