“The Priest. Humpback Rocks. Anywhere. I grew up in the Virginia Highlands, so the Blue Ridge Parkway was my backyard.”
“Seriously? I’ve hiked all of those trails.”
Elizabeth piped in, “FYI, hiking’s on the list.”
Chelsea pulled out her phone. “Ooh, so is going on a picnic. Plus the walk in town…”
“So what else do you have on there?” I asked, hoping I wasn’t as transparent as I felt. “Kiss a Greek?”
Chelsea snorted.
“Live music,” Elizabeth said, extra loud, and Evan looked up from gathering trash.
I said, “You wanna go see who’s playing at the Jefferson tonight?”
Evan’s eyes lit up. “That’s a great idea. I haven’t been there inages.”
That left Chelsea. I squeezed her hand and said, “Come on, Sunshine.”
She shot me a curious glance, like nobody’d ever dared mistake her for a princess, but with a reluctant smirk, she said, “Sure. Why not?”
I wasn’t sure if her list was working out better for her or for me, but I was grateful it was giving me another chance to get to know her better. Evan was wrong about one thing. I was absolutely not impervious to this girl’s charms.
Chapter Seven
Chelsea
Challenge: Go on a double date
How had I gotten myself into this predicament?
At first, I’d agreed to the double date because Bas was right: I’d get to check something off the list. But honestly, I was horny as fuck. I’d been afraid Bas might get the wrong idea, but he hadn’t pushed anything or stalked me. For a local, he was an ideal hit-it-and-quit-it fuck. I’d bet he’d had a string of dead-end romances. I didn’t even mind that we were starting to become friends. I’d gotten some amazing food out of it, and the company wasn’t half bad. I was proud of New Chelsea.
Elizabeth didn’t turn tonight into a dare, exactly, but she did warn, “Don’t even think of bailing on me. If you do, I’ll drag Kate out with us, and she might go home with your boyfriend.”
Elizabeth had as much chance of getting her boss to go on a blind date at the last minute as she had of dragging me to a lecture on Derrida. Still, the thought of Bas with Kate made me itch. If anyone was going to bed with Bas, it was me.
I shouldn’t have to pick through the unvetted pool of wannabe suitors for a partner for one night, only to go home alone. Evan teased Bas for being an easy lover. Well, so was I.
“What makes you think I’m going to bail?” I said, acting offended. “I’ll be there in thirty.”
I tossed my towel on the floor and donned a silky, midnight blue top with a loose and plunging neckline and a flirty miniskirt. I slipped my feet into the burgundy pumps thatshowed off my legs. I wanted Bas to gape at me like he’d catch fire if I so much as touched him. I’d paid too much for those shoes, and I wanted a return on my investment.
Thoughts of money reminded me to transfer a chunk of my paycheck to my vacation fund. The balance was higher than I expected, so I scrolled down through my statement, unsure what I was looking for. Then it hit me. My mom never cashed my check.
She’d never called me back the week before, either, but when she’d finally texted:tried to call. got the check, thx. good now, I took it to mean the money would stretch until her next paycheck. I sent her that money to make sure she wouldn’t stop filling her meds. I felt a little guilty that I didn’t mind her not calling. She needed so much support, it drained me emotionally. She got mired in depression or gripped by a hyperactivity that caused her to chase unrealistic dreams, spend money foolishly, and make other irrational decisions. I’d urged her for years to see a therapist, but she’d just scoffed at the idea.
Honestly, I couldn’t blame her. The first counselor I approached in high school insisted that it wasn’t abuse if my dad never hit me. Spanking or slapping—a firm hand—didn’t qualify. Spare the rod, spoil the child.If my dad’s temper hadn’t left bruises, I was being dramatic, seeking attention.
No way I’d ask that counselor how to survive the constant belittling. Words could never hurt me, right? I never told her about the door slamming that presaged a night of cowering in my room to avoid an onslaught of nasty insults, walking on eggshells until the storm had passed. I held those incidents inside, ashamed. If my mom ever found the gumption to confront him on his tirades, rather than apologize, he’d counter with gaslighting. He wasn’t yelling, he’d tell her. Did she want to see yelling?
The lingering shame and fear of victim-blaming scared mefrom seeking professional help for years. By the time I did, too much bad advice had baked in. The patriarchal double standard ensured I’d never want to let some man decide my fate. I was still a woman with physical needs, but commitment-free sex could never trap me if I kept a man temporarily, moving on before he burrowed in and assumed command.
The best thing my father ever did was leave.
I was the only family Mom had, and so I tried my best to be there for her as much as I could. Now I needed to know what she’d done with the check. I dialed her number, expecting voicemail, but she answered on the third ring.
“Chelsea?”
