“I’m meeting a friend tomorrow, but we could get together after that. How about at Rosemary’s at two?”
“It’s a date,” I tell her. She gives me her standard look of panic, so I tell her, “People do use that term platonically.”
“Of course they do.” She’s quick to add, “But I think we should call it a friendly get-together.”
I snort laugh at that. “Fine. I’ll see you tomorrow for ourfriendlyget-together. But we still have another hour of practice.”
“About that,” she says. “Would you mind taking over. I really want to talk to my parents.”
“I’ve got it,” I tell her. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I watch as she walks out of the gym. Even though I know I’m probably not going to stay in Elk Lake long term, I’m very happy that I came back. And a big part of that is due to Allie Rogers.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
ALLIE
Both of my parents’ cars are in the driveway when I pull up to their house. While I’m relieved to finally tell them I no longer live there, I’m scared about bringing up the matter of their suggestive hobby. Why in God’s name couldn’t they have just kept that part of their relationship to themselves? Why couldn’t they have taken up couples knitting or ping pong even?
The front door is locked, so I put my key in and open it. I nearly choke in surprise when I walk in to find my parents kissing each other with intent. This goes on for a long minute before they realize they have an audience.
My mom steps out of my dad’s arms and asks, “Allie, what are you doing here?”
“I live here, remember?” While that’s not really true, they don’t know that so shouldn’t they be acting a little more discreet?
“I thought you lived above Rosemary’s,” my dad says.
“How do you know that?”
“Mrs. Hocklemeyer told your mom.” This is said like it’s obvious Mrs. Hocklemeyer would know. Not that I know who she even is.
“How does Mrs. Hocklemeyer know where I live?”
“Her son delivered your new mattress to your apartment,” my mom says. Her demeanor suddenly shifts to anger. “When were you planning on telling us?”
“Two nights ago, when you stood me up for dinner,” I hiss.
“Oh, that.” A touch of something resembling guilt fills her tone. “Your dad and I forgot we had a previous engagement.”
“You forgot that you were going to take your clothes off and have pictures taken?” I’m practically yelling at them, which is not how I saw our conversation going. I thought we’d sit down, and I’d tell them I moved out. I expected some tears and worry. When I had them where I wanted them—full of contrition—I was going to drop the bomb that I knew about their secret hobby.
Instead of being shocked that I know what they’re up to, my mom asks, “How didyoufind out?”
“There’s a picture of you both on Main Street.” I take turns death glaring them.
Instead of feeling shame like I expected, my mom claps her hands and practically jumps up and down. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
I forge past them and plop down on the couch before saying, “It’s mortifying!”
“Don’t be a prude, honey.” This from my mom who is standing in front of me looking awfully proud of herself.
“Aren’t you embarrassed to have the whole town see you like that?” I demand heatedly.
“Your mother is a stunning woman, Allie,” my dad says. “I’m proud of her.”
My head swivels so quickly in his direction I almost give myself whiplash. “She is very pretty,” I agree, “but how is it that you want the world to see you like … like … a pair of geriatric lovers?!” I don’t mean to sound quite so accusatory, but that’s exactly how I feel.
“First of all, Allison,” my mother says. “We are not geriatric. We are middle-aged and we both look darn good.”
