“Did your mom not like Jax’s dad?” Holly asks. “Is it okay to ask that?”
I nod. “Yeah, of course. You can ask me anything.”
“Good. So, you are my dad’s girlfriend now, right?” Daisy interrupts. “Because I really like you, and Jax is cool. You should date my dad.”
Holly rolls her eyes and huffs a hard, disappointed breath. “We were talking about something else, Daisy. Enough already. You won the bet.”
“This isn’t even about the bet. I want to know if she likes Dad.”
“I like your dad,” I assure her, grinning. “I wouldn’t invite my mom here to meet the two of you if I didn’t like your dad.”
“I thought you wanted your mom to babysit us.” Daisy looks confused, and Holly crosses her arms over her chest in barely contained disgust.
“Ignore her. Can we go back to what we were talking about, please?”
I scan the crowd of Saturday shoppers for my mom’s distinctive white pixie cut, but I don’t see her so I feel safe to answer. “My husband was my high school sweetheart. My mother thought I should date other men, experience life. Aim a little higher.”
“What does that mean exactly?” Holly asks. “Your mom does sound kind of judgy.”
I chuckle. “She can be. She means well, but…”
“Is she going to have a problem with our dad?” Holly looks concerned. “I mean, some older people still think tattoos are for criminals.” She grows quiet as what she said sinks in. “And then there’s that…”
She doesn’t have to explain more. I reach across the table—stickiness be damned—and grab Holly’s hand. I give it a quick squeeze, then release her. “Anyone who doesn’t accept your dad doesn’t have to have him in their life. But I want him in mine. And I accept him. All the parts of him.”
“Well, I hope I get to meet him someday.” My mother’s voice, that tone. She’s right behind me. And she’s probably overheard a hell of a lot.
“Mom.” I get up out of my chair and look over my beautiful, elegant politician mother. Lori looks like she just left a fundraiser and scored a massive donation. Her power suit is white, her heels are black and four inches high, and her blood-red-covered lips are turned down in a frown right now. “Thank you for coming.”
I give Mom a stiff hug, but I can’t help but notice how she looks from the sticky table to the girls, like she can’t decide which she should clean up first. I ignore all the feelings of not being good enough that one scowlfrom Mom dredges up, and I turn the girls. They are smiling at my mom, looking at her with the same kind of wonder—and a trace of fear—Mom inspires at budget meetings.
“So,” Mom says, putting on her work voice, “you must be the girls I’ve heard so much about.”
I try not to flinch as she sinks the first dagger into my chest. The first Mom’s heard about these girls was today, this afternoon when I asked her if she’d meet us at the mall. But the kids don’t seem to register the insult, which is good.
Holly and Daisy stand and shake my mother’s hand, which she offers to each of them like this is a networking event and the girls are future voters.
“Poppy, why don’t you get something to wipe down this table while I get to know Holly and Daisy a bit better.” Mom pulls out a chair and waves me off like I’m a member of her staff.
I sigh and run over to the smoothie counter to ask for some paper towels. I grab a few wet wipes from my purse, wipe down the table, then dry it with the towels while Mom asks the girls questions.
“Where do you go to school? And do you participate in any civic or community benefit clubs? Doesn’t the high school have a group that sends singers to the senior center once a month?”
Holly and Daisy answer all her questions politely and with none of the anxiety or stress that Mom usually evokes in me. They’re not seeing her questions as jabs, but as someone intensely curious about their lives.
Mom shakes her head and fluffs her pixie cut withshort, perfectly manicured nails. “You know, you’re both old enough to start thinking about the impact you want to have in this world. Whether you want to make it a better place—” she throws a look at me “—or waste the time you’ve been given.”
At that, the girls look confused, and the table falls silent. Way to go, Mom. Making a simple introduction about working for world peace.
I’m shocked when Holly asks, “What did you do when you were our age to make the world a better place?”
Her question isn’t defensive or rude. She sounds genuinely curious about my mom’s life. I take the girls’ smoothie orders and excuse myself to go to the counter. I pull out my phone and fire off a text to Phantom.
Me: Mom is giving the kids a lesson in community betterment. If they didn’t hate me before, this might seal the deal. How’s Jax?
I pay for the smoothies and read Phantom’s reply while I wait for the order to be prepped.
Phantom: Kid’s a natural. I got him on one of the smaller bikes. Just a short ride around the parking lot, but we had a kid’s helmet, so he’s all good.
