“Edible,” she says, “you need to look edible.”
With that brief in mind, I collect Jessica’s mail the following evening, setting it on the entryway table as I picture my closet and its possibilities. I hustle upstairs and hunt through my clothes, assembling option after option for my friends on FaceTime.
As I’m tugging on a pair of vegan leather shorts, Cleo sashays into the bedroom and hops on the pile of clothes. Of course. Her cat radar for things to leave fur on is strong. But first, she must bathe. Right as she’s licking a toe bean and I’m buttoning the shorts, my mom’s name flashes across the phone screen. “Let me call you back,” I tell my friends, then switch over to Mom.
“Oh,” she says, jerking away from the screen.
“Mom! You’ve seen me half-dressed before.”
“I’ve seen you in your birthday suit too. I just wasn’t expecting it.”
Of course, because I was the one who answered on video. I lie on the bed next to Simon, who’s lounging like he’s prepping for an upcomingPlaygirlphoto spread, then button the shorts. “I’ll make myself decent for you.”
When the shorts are on, along with a tight top, I pick the phone up again. “Want to switch to a regular call?”
“Well, the damage has already been done. But no, this is fine,” she says. Her screen bounces as she sets towels on a shelf in her closet. “I just wanted to see if you’d like to do a bookstore and dinner night tomorrow. Wander around An Open Book, then get some naan and chana masala at our favorite place. Since it’s the Games People Play opening,” she sayssympathetically, then rolls her eyes. “And I just saw another piece from a reporter atSan Francisco Lifeabout it.”
Oh. That’s thoughtful of her. But I am a bad daughter. At our lunch this week, I didn’t tell her I’m attending the opening after all. “Actually, Mom, I’m going,” I say with a smidge of guilt.
The stack of washcloths in her free hand wobbles. “What? Why?”
“It’s kind of a long story.” I sink onto the edge of my bed and tell her, finishing with, “And then he insisted on taking me.”
Her smile is too many shades of delighted. “That’s so sweet.”
Sweet? Is it sweet? It felt more sultry when Ford offered. More feral. More demanding. A hot spark curls down my chest as I remember the dark look in his eyes, the intensity in his voice when he asked. Still, she’s not wrong. It was hot, and heady, and also...sweet. “I suppose it was.”
“Well, have fun on your date then,” Mom says. I can hear the hope in her voice.
Better nip that in the bud. “It’s not a real date, Mom,” I say.
“Right,” she says, but her smile calls bullshit.
“It’s not,” I say again.
“Of course not, dear.”
But I can’t have her thinking it’s real, especially since I know she still feels bad about Landon, even though I’ve told her a million times not to. I can’t let her think it’s authentic since she’ll get her hopes up.
Or will youget your hopes up?
I shush that voice in my head that came out ofnowhere. This date is for fun, for show, for getting even. That is all. “It’s just a revenge fake date.”
Mom waves an airy hand, then reaches to a shelf out of the camera’s range. “Hanging out. Revenge fake date. Your generation has such funny terms for dating.”
When she lowers her hand, there’s a stuffed toy in it. Her dog barks in the background. “I should go,” Mom says.
“Tell Taco I hope he enjoys Friday Night Monkey.”
“He always does.”
When I hang up, a new text from my sexy next-door neighbor lands on my phone. Isn’t he at a hockey game? He’s been on the road this week, having played in St. Louis on Tuesday night. Tonight, he’s playing in Vegas.
The game starts in about an hour. My alarm is set to go off so I can settle in on the couch with my pillows, popcorn, pup, and the remote to watch it.
Ford: Can you do me a favor?
Skylar: Sure. But you’re not home, so another hot tub peep show is probably out of the question.
