Of course, Tilly hadn’t had a fever this morning. That didn’t mean she was cured, but maybe it meant her cold had downgraded to something better, and she would be okay with me being gone for a few hours.
I waffled back and forth, the odd bit of excitement bubbling in my belly. I’d always wondered what the get-togethers at Esther’s place were like. On her party nights, there were always a lot of cars outside as I’d passed by her house.Bunco night.It sounded like fun. AndIwas invited. Had I not been in public, I would’ve done a happy dance, would’ve sashayed celebratorily, but I didn’t. There would be time later.
Internally, I clapped. Tonight, Bethany was going to a party!
CHAPTERFOUR
It was after six by the time I got out of the shower. So, I pulled out my dusty blow dryer in a hurry and used it until my short, dark hair was perfectly straight instead of its usual wild waves. Bunco night was my first chance at being part ofthe group, The Fascinators, and I wanted to look good. Hence the reason why I enlisted Tilly to help me pick something to wear.
When I’d mentioned bunco with the ladies, Tilly had insisted that I needed to go and that she would be fine on her own. She was feeling much better than the night before, she’d reassured me over and over again. And even though I was a worry-wart, I had to admit, she looked better too.
“You’re sure it’s okay if I go?” I asked for the dozenth time.
She rolled her eyes. “I’ll survive, Mom.” There was just a touch of sarcasm in her voice, so I released a slow breath. She was fine. I was worrying too much.
“But instead of worrying about me, weshouldbe focused on your choice of clothes for the night.”
She stood at my closet, then practically crawled halfway inside so she could reach the back—I wasn’t so fancy as to have a walk-in. I could barely make out her muttering as she threw things out of the closet, and I almost sensed her shaking her head at my terrible assortment of clothes.
A bad feeling rolled in my belly as the minutes went by. I literally had nothing to wear that was appropriate for a night at the biggest house in all the land. In this town, anyway.
But at least Tilly was back to her old self. “For crying out loud, Mom. You’re forty-something. Why do you have so many velour tracksuits?”
“There was a sale.” Probably. Or a bargain. Or I liked the color. They were super comfy.
She went back to pawing at my clothes as if looking at the same garment seven or eight times might have made it fashionable.
“What about this one?” She pulled out a short black dress with spaghetti straps and a sparkly skirt. I’d worn it when I was twenty and saved it as a memento of my earlier life. I wasn’t even sure why. Maybe I thought Tilly might want to wear it at some point.
I cocked a brow as if I was actually considering it. “You know, you might have been conceived in that dress.” I’d worn it at the start of quite a few wild nights. I eyed it now like it might have been cursed by the fertility god.
She dropped it, hanger and all, onto the floor with a grimace, then went back to shoving hangers back and forth on the rod, muttering under her breath.
“How about this?” She pulled a sweater/tank combo I kept hidden in the back of the closet because cute as it was, the garment had a looks-better-on-the-hanger feel to it.
I shook my head. “Tilly, I can just wear jeans and one of my mom tops.” That was usually what she called my typical weekend/no temp job uniform. Some had cute sayings like, “Dough before bros,” and “Less whine, more wine”. Others were concert tees from the 1980s.
Tilly cocked out a hip and pursed her lips at me. “Mom, no one wants to be BFFs with your Steven Tyler t-shirt.” She rolled her eyes. And when I opened my mouth to protest, she spoke over me. “Bon Jovi might not be the statement you want to make either.” She handed me a red sweater.
I sighed. “Bon Jovi is always the statement I want to make.” But as I slipped into the sweater, she pulled a silver scarf from the back of my closet. “That might be a little bit too much, Tilly.”
She rolled her eyes again and waved the scarf at me again. “Mom, you dress like you’re a prop in a black and white picture of your own life.” She straightened the scarf. “Be the color in the picture, Mom.”
My daughter, the child of my heart, spouted sage advice like she was a bumper sticker. And even though we both spoke English, sometimes I felt like we needed an interpreter.
But I would’ve been remiss in my parenting duties if I didn’t do the mom thing. “How’s school?” It was an ill attempt to change the subject. At least in directing it to her and off me.
She was an art major who loved color, knew light. This was her skill ever since she first started with crayons in Kindergarten. I had boxes full of her early offerings.
“It’s good. I love my art history class. My professor isamazing.” She continued to elaborate with an anecdote I mostly ignored in favor of a tactful way to ask aboutthe boyfriendwho she didn’t talk to me about much. That concerned me because she talked to me about everything.
“And what about—” I cleared my throat. What was his name? Oh, my gosh. My mind was totally blank. This was nuts. I knew his name. “Er. Your guy?” I didn’t know if kids these days used labels like boyfriend since we’d come into a time where any labels at all were frowned upon.
A bubble inside of her popped. Her smile faded to a frown. “We aren’t together anymore.” As if she knew my next question, she shook her head. “And I don’t want to talk about it.”
I nodded because I could be that kind of mom. “If you change your mind…”
“I won’t.” And that was that.
