Not that it’s Axe in my little daydream, of course. When his face pops up in my mind, I push it aside.
When we pause at Chuck and Theo’s stand selling homemade jams, Axe holds up a jar of preserves, and his eyes twinkle with pure mischief.
“If I had to describe you with one of these jams, I might go with this one,” Axe says, showing me the label.
“ ‘Spiced peach,’ ” I read aloud as a hot blush creeps up my cheeks. I shake my head. Fortunately, the man who must be Chuck—he, too, has a mohawk, like his husband, but instead of rainbow, his is somehow leopard—isn’t paying any attention to us. “Actually, I’m more of a strawberry jam kind of girl,” I tell him. “But for me, a good jam is less about the flavor.”
“Agree. All about the bread,” he says. “A fresh-baked, thick-sliced country white loaf, medium toasted.”
“That does sound delicious,” I admit with a shrug. “But I’mactually happy with any style of bread-shaped carb. Because, see, forme, it’s about the spread.”
“Thespread?” He wiggles his eyebrows, and I laugh. His accent inflects everything with innuendo.
“The jam’s got to be as even as a bedsheet, right to the edges of the toast.” I blush again, this time at my use of the wordbedsheet. Probably didn’t need to bring beds into this. Much like he didn’t need to bring peaches.
Axe grins. “Ah, yes. I’ll bet you spread a mean toast, Josie.”
I manage to meet his gaze, and I can’t help myself but flirt back. After all, it’s my job, right?
“Oh, you have no idea,” I say.
“Josie Marie! What are you doing out here in the sun?! And without a hat?! You know better than that!”
Oh shit, shit, shit.
I freeze, the color draining from my face as my mother appears, weaving her way through the throngs of marketgoers. She’s clutching a large canvas@MamaBearSharonbag—swag from some ancient GoFundMe, printed with a photo of eight-year-old me with my bald head, Mom smiling behind me, looking a lot younger and cuter. As her eyes zombie-lock onto mine, it strikes me that she looks like she’s aged a century.
Axe seems to grasp the situation.
“You must be Josie’s mum,” he says, his smile as warm as apple pie as he extends his hand. “I’ve heard a fair bit about you.”
Mom takes Axe’s hand with limp fingers, but she doesn’t bother with so much as a hello, her eyes narrowing as she looks up and scrutinizes him for only a moment before turning her attention to me.
“Josie, why didn’t you tell me you were seeing someone new? Poor Bryan is going to be devastated.”
Poor Bryan?What is she talking about? It would be funny if my mother didn’t look so bananas. Somehow, seeing her out in public, with Axe right here next to me, I can take her in as everyone else might. Her clown-red hair matches her clown-red lips, a terrible one-two punch. Her floral silk blouse with way too many ruffles paired with a pencil skirt one size too tight. A thick layer of jewelry—chunky gold bangles, oversized hoop earrings—completes the look, making her appear like she’s trying too hard to dress for a life she doesn’t have. But the worst is her bag—with my sick face on it.Like it’s cute. Like my misery is her fashion statement.
Strength, Josie. But I can also feel my courage buckling along with my stomach. The powerful urge to bolt—to leave Axe here with this live-action hot mess that happens to be my mother—nearly overwhelms me.
“Mom, I’m fine,” I say softly. “I’m actually working right now. Can you please leave us alone?”
“Working?” She sniffs. “You’re certainly not in good enough health to work—if that’s what this is—in the middle of the day. You look awful! Green at the gills! Are you feeling okay? You should be home in bed. Not gallivanting. What are you thinking?”
“I told you, I’m fine!” My tone is sharp. Even Axe can probably tell I’m teetering on the edge of truly bitchy. My mom looks hurt at first, but then decides to just bulldoze right past that. She forcefully grabs my arm as if she’s going to pull me home when Axe’s voice growls.
“Mrs. Greene, I’m afraid you’ll need to let go of your daughter and step back. We don’t want to get security involved.”
“My last name isn’t Greene. That was Josie’slate father’slast name. I’m Mrs. Groznok. And Josie’s coming with me—” One of the fruit stand sellers—wait, I know that guy, he was my driverfrom the first date—steps forward. In a few quick strides, he reaches us and firmly takes Mom’s arm, causing her to drop mine.
“Ma’am, we have reason to believe you’re causing a disturbance. We need to escort you from the premises. Please come with us.”
“Causing a disturbance?” Mom’s face is as red as a beet. “I’m hardly—Josie, tell them.”
I’m not sure what comes over me, but I decide not to intervene. Iamworking, and Iamfine. I’m twenty-six years old. My mother should listen to me when I ask her politely to leave. And so I let Axe’s guy whisk her off with such speed and efficiency that it’s like she was never here. I know I’ll pay for this moment, maybe for the rest of my life, but the breath I exhale after she’s gone is one hundred percent worth it.
Axe and I just stand there for a moment, processing the weirdness of her whirlwind. His eyes on me are so full of concern, I feel mortified.
“Was that okay?” Axe asks. “I figured when you didn’t speak up, you were fine with security getting involved? In my experience with this sort of thing, moving fast breaks the momentum and de-escalates the drama. But I can call him and bring her back if that’s what you want.”
