I nod, because I know he understands. “Yeah…”
My best friend nods, holding his fist in the air between us, and I bump my knuckles against his. And, without another word on the topic, we each relax back into our seats as the plane starts to taxi along the runway.
CHAPTER 25
HANNAH
“When will you arrive?”
I roll my eyes as I walk out of my bedroom, towel drying my hair. “Saturday morning.”
“The day of?” My mother almost chokes on her own words.
“Yes.” I toss the damp towel onto the back of one of my kitchen stools, turning to open the fridge. “I have towork, remember?”Something you haven’t done since you were a twenty-two-year-old bottle girl living off tips when you met my father,I don’t add.
“You can’t come down on Friday?”
“No.” That’s a lie. I absolutely could go down on Friday. It’s the Thunder’s last game of the regular season, but they’re advancing to post-season, so it’s not a huge deal if I miss it. Depending on the draw, it’s unlikely they will play until the Monday after. But I don’t want to go to this bullshit wedding at all, and I certainly don’t want to be there any longer than necessary.
“You’re not going to be there with me at the rehearsal dinner?”
I snap my mouth shut because she sounds genuinely upset,and sure, my mom and I don’t see eye to eye because, for the most part, she’s a heartless cunt, but I’m not heartless. And she is, after all, still my mother.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I close my eyes tight. “I mean… maybe I could fly down on Friday afternoon.”
“Oh, please, Hannah,” Mom pleads. “It would mean the world to me.”
Damn her. I’ve never heard her sound so… desperate.
“I’ll have to ask my boss.” I roll my eyes at myself because of course Patrick will say yes. In fact, he’ll likely tell me to take the week off,go down and spend the week with your mother, Hannah.I grimace at the thought. “I can’t make any promises,” I say sternly. “But… I’ll ask.”
My intercom buzzes, startling me, and my spine stiffens because I’m not expecting anyone and, naturally, as it always does, my first thought goes to Chris.
Mom is gushing again over something to do with the wedding that I truly do not care about, so I hurry to press the button on the speaker box, not saying anything and waiting.
“Let me up, you sneaky little slut!” Fran’s voice is shrill and knowing as it spears the silence of my apartment, and I can’t help but laugh, pressing the button that unlocks the entrance.
“I-I beg yourpardon?” My mother gasps. “Hannah?”
“Mom,” I say through a stifled laugh. “I have to go.”
“Make sure you ask your boss,” Mom says quickly. “I need to organize the place?—”
“Bye, Mother,” I interject, ending the call.
Toasty bounds past me and down the hallway, sitting at the front door and staring at it, whining. Seconds later, a knock sounds, and I hurry to answer it, sliding the bolt and pulling open the door to see Fran standing there cloaked in a number nine Robbie Mason jersey that swims on her, satin pajama pants, and fluffy slides, holding a bottle of white wine in one hand and a bottle of red in the other.
“What are you doing here?” I huff a laugh, hugging her as she steps over the threshold.
“I’m here to watch the game, of course.” She grins at me, tugging on the jersey she’s wearing and pointing at the team logo on the front, stopping to give Toasty some love which he accepts with a satisfied groan.
And I know exactly why she’s here. And it’s not to watch the fucking game. But I allow it, following her inside and grabbing the La Cantina menu from where it’s stuck to the fridge door by a magnet. Because if I’m going to be interrogated, I’m not doing it without tacos.
We make it eight minutes into the first period when Rusty is sent to the box after arguing with the refs, and the camera pans to Happy laughing from the bench, my father smacking the back of his helmet, obviously telling him to cut it out, which only causes the announcers to chuckle too. Tonight’s game is so unserious. Houston is at the very bottom of the division, and with only three games to go after tonight, there’s no real risk to the Thunder’s standing. So of course Fran will use tonight’s game as an opportunity to pry. And it’s just as I scoop a big dollop of guac onto a chip, popping it into my mouth, that she does.
“Does Happy have a big dick?”
I almost choke on my mouthful of food, holding my fist to my mouth and coughing harshly. Grabbing my wine glass, I take a big sip to wash it down, clearing my throat and wiping the tears from my eyes before turning to gawk at her.
