Don’t touch him again, even playfully.
I step toward the room when a voice crackles over the loudspeaker, like in a grocery store: “Paging Ford Devon, your mom is on the phone.”
10
STEAK TO A TIGER
FORD
I wish I could say I was surprised. But this is so unbelievably on brand for her that I simply let out a heavy sigh.
Skylar’s irises flicker with question marks. A worried frown curves those pretty lips.
Right. She has no idea what my mom is like. She might think something bad is happening. “This isn’t the first time she’s done this,” I try to reassure her.
Her shoulders relax. “You’re…not joking?”
Shaking my head, I beckon for her to join me as I stride through the labyrinth of tables, sloth lamps, and an umbrella holder with an elephant-head at the top (who knew?) toward the front of the store.
“When I was eighteen and driving to college, I was pulled over by highway patrol. Wasn’t even speeding. Had no clue what it could be for. A broken taillight? Maybe my tags were out of date? But when I rolled down the window, the officer said, ‘Are you Ford Devon?’ I said yes, of course. He said, ‘Call your mom. She hasn’t heard from you in a couple of hours.’ Then he walked off.”
Skylar’s eyes spark with an amusement that spreads across her whole face. “Noooo.”
“Yessss.”
“That’s…fantastic.”
“That’s annoying,” I correct.
“I meant it’s fantastically diabolical.”
She gets it. “Yes. All because my cell phone battery ran out somewhere in the Rocky Mountains. Mom said she wanted to make sure I was okay.”
Skylar’s green eyes flicker with more amusement than eyes should be allowed to hold. “How many times did she do this when you were a toddler? Were you endlessly paged in grocery stores? Did they know your name at the local super store? Did they call out, ‘Ford in the toy aisle—go find your mom in tampons?’”
She sounds positively delighted. A far cry from my ex, who loathed my mother. I get it. Mom is like cilantro—not to everyone’s liking.
“I wish I could tell you that didn’t happen, but it did,” I say as we weave past a haphazard row of reclaimed wood tables. Pretty sure that cream table is the one we picked for Mom, but right now I’m too irked by her to give it a second thought.
“I probably should actually give her my number at some point,” Skylar offers, “so she doesn’t worry.”
That is entirely too kind. And also dangerous. “Do you want to throw raw steak to a tiger?”
“I hate steak, so that’d be a no. But why?” Skylar’s eating up every detail of Mom like they’re gumdrops on the path to the gingerbread house in the woods.
“You’ll get stories upon stories, articles upon articles. More ‘did you knows’ than you’d know what to do with. Did you know you can tell the Google Hub to remind youwhen your laundry is done? Did you know you can compost wine corks? Did you know thatSex and the Cityis finally streaming?”
Skylar blinks. “It is? Huh. I guess I haven’t looked for that in a long time. But thanks, Mama Devon, I know what I’ll be bingeing tonight.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m fighting off a laugh as we reach the front counter.
A man with a thick beard, horn-rimmed glasses, and a wry smile is waggling a beige phone receiver. “Let me guess. You’re Ford Devon?”
“Was it the reluctant look in his eyes that gave him away?" Skylar asks, drumming the countertop in an amused rhythm.
“I’d have to say yes,” the man says, then hands off the phone with agood luck, you’re going to need itlook.
Deep breath.
