“I only ask because—”
“Mom, I’m driving in a rainstorm on some spooky haunted house lane. The last thing I want to talk about is August. The guy gets enough attention as it is. I don’t care enough to know, honestly, and—”
“Penelope.”
Just that. Inthattone. My mother and I may be friends but she’s still my mother. Sassing is not allowed. Evasion, on the other hand?
“Where’s your compassion?” she asks in that famous dramatic, hand-wringing fashion of hers that has theater attendees at the edge of their seats. As for me? I’m immune to it; she is my mother, after all.
Scoffing, I flick on my turn signal and make a right. “Ma, you’ve got to be kidding. August Luck has the world in the palm of his hand.”
“He’s falling apart, Pen.”
My mind’s eye sees that perfectly formed chest glistening under hot lights, tight abs moving in exertion. Dark hair falling over wild silver eyes, diamond bright smile. Disgrace looks good on August.
Frowning, I push the image away.And stay there, damn it.
“He’ll be fine.” Will he? Something is definitely wrong there. He’s only two games into his rookie season and is acting like an attention seeking fool. Does it matter? I’ve never been involved in his life, never will be. “He always is.”
“That’s my point. This isn’t like the boy.” (I scoff here at the term “boy.”) “He’s the levelheaded one. When he was little, he used to separate his Froot Loops by color.”
No, I will not smile. Luck is charming enough as it is without adding onto it.
“He saves the instructions to everything, did you know? Who does that?”
“Total rebels.”
“Smart-ass.”
Luckily, she can’t see me rolling my eyes. “Look, Mom. This August retrospective has been great and all, but maybe you should call him if you’re so worried.”
“Ooh,I knew you were still mad. You’re being smarmy.”
How well she knows me.
“I just don’t understand why we have to talk about him.”
Yes, she knows me well, and yet she’s never picked up that I shy away from August as a topic of discussion. Even now, she digs in.
“It’s important—” She pauses when I make a contrary noise. Then speaks louder. “You should empathize with him because—”
“It’s getting a little dicey here. I’m gonna have to let you go and call back when I get there.”
“Pen.” It’s a sigh that says I’m being childish.
Like I don’t know that. Frankly, I feel a bit like a child at the moment. Then again, I’m twenty-two; it’s not as though she can revoke my car privileges...
“Okay, Mom?” I say as though fighting with a faulty phone connection. “Call you later, bye!”
“Penelope Jane—”
I cut her off before she can finish. “Kisses and hugs. Love you!”
And then I hang up.
Oh, that’s going to come back to haunt me.
“I don’t care,” I mutter, then stick my tongue out at my phone. The fact that she hasn’t immediately called me back means I’m not in total trouble. Friction is to be expected at any rate.
