The four of us pile through the revolving door so fast we get stuck in it for a second, but eventually we burst into the lobby and turn to find the paparazzi barred by the buff security guards.
“Well.” I look around the elegant lobby. Distant harp music floats from the open door of the hotel restaurant. “This place is very
un-Saintlike. Are we robbing it?”
An unmistakable voice carries across the lobby. “Theodore!”
Immediately, my limbs lock, the result of my body’s fight-or-flight response. It can’t be. It makes no sense.
I’m so still Ripper takes my shoulders and turns me himself. “Look who it is.”
Exactly who I thought: my mother, arm in arm with Bruce.
*
“These daisies are very thoughtful, Ken,” my mother says, as soon as we’ve finished putting in our coffee orders. Lying flat on the restaurant’s tablecloth, the flowers look rather worse for wear after our mad dash from the paparazzi, all broken stems and drooping petals. But you’d never know it the way my mother’s smiling.
“It’s Kenny,” I correct. I’m feeling about a thousand different emotions sitting at this table, stuck in the most surreal scene of all time, where my mother and Bruce have somehow materialized in New York City, hundreds of miles from Virginia, to attend a fancy hotel brunch with my hungover rock band.
Kenny sits up straight and smooths his collar. “Actually, it’s Kenneth. Kenneth Nathaniel Lovins. Nice to meet you, Mama and Papa Suit.”
“Bruce isn’t my papa—uh, my dad,” I say quickly.
“He’s your stepfather,” my mom corrects.
“Right. Your husband.”
“And thank god for that!” Bruce says jovially. He’s a sweet guy, one of those retired men who believes in the slow life: fishing and gardening and whittling sticks into statues—I presume. I don’t visit very often.
Ripper snorts. “Kennethdefinitely pulled those daisies out of the hotel flower bed.”
“Well, I’m charmed nonetheless.” My mother turns her warm smile on Hannah. She’s so much softer these days. Quicker to laugh too. But the years of stress and heartache from being a single mother still show in the lines on her face. Her hair, originally the same dark color as mine, is going gray at the roots. It’s strange to witness my mother aging. In my mind, she’ll always be the young woman who held me for almost an hour after telling me my dad wasn’t coming back.
“I love your hat,” my mom says to Hannah. “It’s darling.”
Hannah eyes the waiter on the other side of the room. “I think you’re the only one.”
The waiter’s motioning at her to remove it. I guess the Brunswick Hotel’s Michelin-star restaurant has a no-hat policy. Hannah sighs and drops it on the floor, then slides off her sunglasses and places them on the table.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Bruce blurts, before my mom elbows him in the ribs.
In the sober light of day—at least, semisober—Hannah’s half-shaved head looks less punk rock and more like a little girl who got bored and quit cutting her Barbie’s hair halfway through. Black mascara and eyeliner are smudged around her eyes, making her look like a raccoon. The faint trace of a tear running through makeup is etched on her face.
“What?” she asks, touching her temple. “Is it that bad?”
“All the eye gunk you were wearing is down here now.” Ripper lifts his sunglasses and points to his cheeks.
“Dear god,” Bruce cries, and there’s a collective gasp around the table as we all behold Ripper’s massive black eye.
“What did you guysdolast night?” I demand.
But our waiter arrives with a silver tray full of coffees and creamers. Once he’s done sliding the cups and saucers in front of us, Ripper turns to me. “After you left, I might’ve gotten into a bit of a fracas with some people who were talking shit to Hannah.”
I take a deep breath. “And were those people holding cameras?”
His eyes wander to the ceiling. “They might’ve been.”
I wince. “Great. Now I need to call Roger before pictures of you fistfighting paparazzi hit the internet.”
