As one, they return to face me, and Grandma Helen says, “Fine. We’ll throw in landscaping in the interim.”
It sounds too good to be true, but if they can follow through, it’s too tempting an offer to refuse. After two nonstop weeks spent battling retirees, I could really use a break, but Ineeda win.
“And everyone suits up,” I blurt, sensing my time for tacking on conditions is almost up. “If you get to dictate my social life, I get to ask that in return.”
“Okay, starting next weekend,” Rita says, but Wanda’s jaw drops as though I’ve requested too much of them.
“We can’t control everyone, and how would we even confirm that?”
In addition to avoiding HIPPA violations, I’m not looking to violate boundaries and expose private information. “It’d be amazing if everyone would get onboard, but I’ll apply this condition to just the Cronies, with the understanding we’re all women of honor.”
Instead of jumping on the chance they’ve been chasing since my arrival, they hesitate.
“Seriously, ladies, what’s going on?”
They glance around and crowd closer, ripples from their movements causing me to sway. “You don’t get it,” Rita says, and the two other women are already nodding along. “It’s not that easy, especially at our age.”
I’m in a real conundrum, because asking for clarification might lead to an excess of information.
“I thought it was nothing I’d settle for again, but when it comes to our options…” Wanda does another visual sweep, teeth digging into her lower lip. “There are a lot more single females than men around here, in case you haven’t noticed. Available bachelors get their pick, four or five single women for every one of them, and suddenly sex is a competitive sport. Those of us who are selective and opinionated, or like Sophia, ask for exclusivity, we lose.”
In a way, it confirms a class on body positivity is a good idea; in another way, it just pisses me off that women have to spend their lives compromising.
“I’m a warm-blooded woman,” Rita says. “I have certain desires.”
“Okay, I’m good with leaving it at that before we veer into TMI territory,” I say with a renewed sense of purpose. “But I hear you and better understand where you’re coming from, so thank you.”
Skepticism plays across their features in a wave.
“That’s the Miami dating scene, too.” It’s nice feeling understood about my frustrations with dating, here in this place I least expected it. “I’m also the type of woman who wants a connection before sex and am often rejected when I convey as much.”
“Another reason you should try the dating scene here,” Wanda says, the point flying over her teased hair, but it’s okay because I’m regaining my footing.
Right up until Rita grabs my hand and releases a squeal. “I’m so happy you’ve agreed, because next Friday night, we already set it up for you to go dancing with the doctor.”
Chapter Ten
On the following Friday, just as soon as I’ve returned home from work, I’m fed an early bird special and ushered into Grandma’s ensuite bathroom.
She, Rita, and Wanda instruct me to sit in the vanity chair facing the mirror, and I reluctantly do. Unlike the patio chairs, this one doesn’t have wheels, which rules out a faster getaway, and I’m sure that’s also by design.
Naturally I have to prove I’m fully committed to the bargain we struck before they do a thing on their end, and that somehow incudes doing my makeup. The three older women are armed to the teeth, wielding compacts and brushes, a mascara wand, and a jumbo aerosol can of hairspray.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I say, snagging the pink blush from Tia Rita—because no offense, but I’ve seen the amount she swipes on her cheeks, and I’m far too pale for that to leave me looking like anything but a sickly Victorian orphan auditioning forCabaret.
“Where’s that smoky eye tutorial?” Wanda asks, lifting her phone to her face, and I use the opening to rob her of the glittery gray and black eye shadow kit she clearly has no experience with.
I wrestle the hairspray that doubles as superglue out of Grandma’s hand, along with a bottle of goopy foundation that’ll clog my pores for days, hugging the hijacked beauty supplies to my chest. “Oh my God, it’s like disarming a Sephora.”
Several protests go up at once, about how I agreed to this and they’ve been doing makeup longer than I have, and a suggestion I try new things.
I begin to stand but meet the resistance of hands on shoulders, and huff. “I never gave carte blanche on hair and makeup—”
“That means I get wardrobe,” Rita yells with a rapid clap of her hands, and I can’t tell if she’s being serious, and that worries me the most. While I don’t like to lose, I hate to fail even more, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t also excited to go out with Dr. Vasquez and see what happens when we’re dancing, my body pressed against his.
Yet another reason not to show up looking like a twelve-year-old girl trying makeup for the first time. “I think I should stick with my usual look.”
“Is this what you’re wearing then?” Grandma asks in an unimpressed tone, her opinion of my flutter-sleeve jumpsuit with the wide-legged pants and funky chevron print coming through loud and clear. “Looks like you’re headliningThe Vagina Monologues.”
