Do you:
1) like Graham Forrester?
2) like like Graham Forrester?
3) want to bone Graham Forrester?
* * *
I cracked up, marked one of the squares, then refolded the note and tucked it deep inside my bra.
“As if I wouldn’t go get that,” Addie said, turning to pull a premade salad from the fridge.
“You sure you don’t want to come with me for dinner at Lilian and Cal’s house?” I asked. “It’s sure to be delicious.”
“But will it have…” She peered at the label on her salad container. “Crispy onion wisps?”
“I cannot confirm or deny.”
“As much as I’d love to see your mother…” She vehemently shook her head. “I’m going to have to pass. I have a date with my couch and the TV.”
“I didn’t know you were into threesomes.”
“I’ve gotten kinky in my old age.”
I grinned and turned to head to the guest room to change my clothes.
“You gonna date him?” Addie asked.
I turned back around and gave her a sad smile, shaking my head. “Even if he was interested, which I’m sure he is not, I can’t. I only have the bandwidth for flings these days and, actually, I don’t even think I have that anymore. Avoiding being used and hurt again takes a lot of energy. I’m tired. Of the effort, and the men.”
“There is a lot of life left to live, my friend,” Addie said, walking around the kitchen island and giving me a hug. “Don’t let the assholes from your past ruin it for you”
“Funny. I told Ty the same thing once,” I said, referring to my famous gay model pal.
Addie wheezed a laugh, shaking her head as she held her ribcage.
“Dammit,” I said. “Sorry! Stop laughing!”
It took her several minutes and some slow and steady breathing to be able to speak again.
“You deserve nice things and hot sex, Lilu. Preferably all wrapped up in one delicious, dark-haired authorly type.”
“I could probably set you up with him,” I said.
“Nah. You know I like my men on the stupid side, that way they don’t notice when I steal their cool band t-shirts.”
It was true, she did have an impressive collection thanks to her dating history.
“Enjoy your couch and salad date,” I said, kissing the top of her head and then hurrying to my room to change.
Thirty minutes later I was crossing the threshold of my mother and stepdad’s beautiful home tucked in the hills overlooking the Puget Sound.
“Lior, darling,” my mother said in her thick Swedish accent that was somehow unaffected by her decades living in the States.
She kissed me on both cheeks and then held me at arm’s length while I stood, waiting for the scrutiny, the flick of her ice-blue eyes darting over my face, hair, and body, looking for flaws to comment on.
“You look lovely,” she said, but I could hear the disappointment in her voice and I nearly laughed out loud. Was it the messy ponytail I’d pulled my hair into as I’d walked out the door? Or perhaps it was my choice of footwear – my old pair of worn-out sneakers. Or maybe it was the Blondie t-shirt and cut-off white shorts that weren’t to her liking. (Probably. She hated graphic tees. According to her they were “classless”.)
