“Yeah. With all their golf friends. We crashed it once,” Dez says.
“Maybe that’s what you should do, Molly,” Alyssa says softly. “I bet he’d be happy to see you.”
But I can’t go to the Rubensteins’ in this state. I can’t even watch slightly emotional television commercials in front of other people without freezing up in embarrassment. Giving my big speech in front of Seth’s parents or, God forbid, Dave, would be like attending all the weddings and christenings and funerals in the world while naked and shivering.
“I don’t want to talk about Seth,” I mutter.
Alyssa, Dezzie, and my mother are all staring at me sadly, with looks that vary between “I feel bad for you” (Alyssa), “I’m worried you’ll never be happy” (Mom), and “You are the stupidest woman in the world” (Dezzie).
“Oh my God, stop it!” I say. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Can we eat?”
“Yes,” my mom says. “Help me carry this stuff to the table.”
She hands out plates heaping with waffles, eggs, and bacon and we gather around the breakfast nook. She’s set up fancy bowls of whipped cream, maple syrup, strawberry sauce, and sprinkles. God, I love her for the sprinkles.
We all eat and chat about our plans for the night. Mom and Bruce are hosting a disco-themed cocktail party. She bought me a slutty dress for the occasion. Alyssa’s dad and stepmom are watching the kids for her and Ryland so they can go out to dinner at a little bistro downtown. Dezzie is driving to Miami to go to a party with her sister.
We inhale approximately eight pounds of waffles each, and then the girls pack up to go. While they’re busy, I open my email and reply to Becky’s mis-addressed note.
Hey Becks—I think you sent this to me by mistake. Also—have you had time to look at that script I sent yet? Need it ASAP.
I go upstairs and wash my face. I look like hell—five years older than I looked a month ago. Dezzie and Alyssa come into the bathroom behind me. They both put their arms around me, and we squeeze each other in a three-way hug.
“Ménage à trois!” Dezzie says in a creepy French accent—which she’s been doing every time we all hug since we were ten and she learned what it meant.
The joke still kills.
“Can you drive us back?” Alyssa asks. “Ryland just texted, and apparently Jesse had a meltdown over having to put on shoes before going outside, and it sent Amelia into a rage spiral because she was wearing shoes, and now all hell is breaking loose.”
I laugh. “Yeah. Let me throw on some clothes.”
We pile into my mom’s car and blast a shared playlist of our favorite songs as we head into town. I drop Alyssa off first. Dez and I pop inside to say hi to Ryland and the kids (who are indeed in devil mode) and quickly retreat back to the car.
“Damn,” Dezzie says. “I want kids so bad and then I see that and my ovaries shrivel.”
“I’m sure they’ll be angels again in fifteen minutes.”
“At least they’re cute, even when they’re having rage blackouts.”
“I know. They even make me want one.”
She gives me a pained look. She knows I would want a baby with only one specific person.
I pull into the Chans’ driveway and go inside with Dezzie to say hello to her parents. Mrs. Chan insists on sitting me down and having me update her on the last year of my life. Which is hard to do in a fashion that leaves out Seth, who I will very certainly cry if I mention. I tell her about Los Angeles fire season instead. Floridians love that. Distracts them from their hurricanes.
Once we’ve caught up, I give Dez a big hug and get back in the car.
At home, my mom is flitting around with Bruce and her party planner, so I am able to dodge her and go upstairs and truly panic about my plan unraveling. I anxiously check my email to see if Becky has replied yet, but she hasn’t. Not that it matters. If he’s here, I can’t go ahead with surprising him tomorrow. I wonder if it’s a sign that I should not be doing this. That I should leave him in peace.
Downstairs, the doorbell rings.
I look out the window and see, of all people, my father, carrying a giant bouquet of lilies.
The fuck?
Oddly, my brain fixates on the lilies, rather than the inexplicable fact of his presence here. Either he doesn’t remember my mother is allergic to them, or he is planning to use them to suffocate her in her own home.
I walk to the staircase and lean down to hear what’s being said.
“Is Molly here?” Dad asks. “I texted her and she didn’t reply, but I know she’s usually in town for the holidays so I thought I’d try … I would have called but I don’t have your number.”
My mother sneezes.
“First of all, Roger, get those things out of my face. I’m allergic.”
“You are? Sorry. I didn’t know.”
“You absolutely did know. We were married for twenty years.”
She takes the bouquet out of his hands and hurls it at his car.
This is absurd but very satisfying, and I giggle.
“Secondly,” she goes on, “if my daughter wanted to see or speak to you, she would have replied to your text. If she did not, we can both safely assume she doesn’t want anything to do with you. And after that stunt you pulled on Thanksgiving, I can understand why.”
“I did not ‘pull a stunt,’” he says, using exaggerated air quotes. “I addressed a simple business matter. But I admit it was poor timing, and I’m sorry she got her feelings hurt.”
“You’re sorry she ‘got her feelings hurt’?” my mom asks, returning his air quotes. “What a heartfelt apology. I’m sure she’ll be very touched.”
