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I respond to her messages then look up to see Eric coming in the door. It doesn’t seem like his kind of place but he’s always going to lunch with Michael.
He places an order for his food and retreats to a dark corner of the restaurant where he promptly buries his face in his phone.
His food comes up before mine and Atlas is the one that brings it to him. I don’t miss the flirty way she smiles at him, fluffs her hair, and keeps touching his arm.
For his part, Eric seems unaffected. He doesn’t even so much as smile at her. I’m almost convinced he doesn’t care about her until she bends over to help a crying child.
Then he totally checks out her ass. Not a quick peek either. This is a long appreciative glance that has him quickly adjusting his pants.
Busted.
For a second, I wonder if Michael knows. Then I remember the list of eligible guys that he’s putting together. He clearly doesn’t know that his daughter already has her eye on someone.
When Eric turns to leave the restaurant, I duck behind a display case filled with delicious desserts.
After another long few minutes, Atlas finally brings me my food. She gives me a flustered smile. “Thanks for waiting. I gave you the extra crispy fries you like.”
I eat my fries and shake in the car, so I don’t have to endure my mom’s arched eyebrow when she sees my unhealthy dinner choices.
If I’m lucky, she won’t even be home tonight. She’ll be at some club, dressed in the latest designer dress, and grinding it out with some guy half her age.
Unfortunately, I’m not that lucky.
My mom is home when I come in.
I brace myself for the usual onslaught. She isn’t easy to deal with on the best of days and it’s likely to be worse tonight since she’s tipsy.
I’ve just made it past the fireplace where she framed a six-foot portrait of herself on the cover of Playboy, wearing only earmuffs.
“What are you doing home so late?” She demands as if I’m a teenager that got caught sneaking in late and not a grown woman.
She’s lounging on the couch topless in just a pair of skimpy red underwear. She stares at the picture of herself, almost as if she studies it long enough she’ll be able to go back in time and recapture her youth. “Were you out being a slut with a man who took pity on you?”
Never mind that she brings home more men than a lonely cat lady brings home strays.
“No, Mom.” I use the word on purpose to punish her. She hates being reminded that she’s old enough to have a daughter. Apparently, it’s embarrassing. “I was dealing with contract changes at work.”
She laughs as if I’ve made a good joke. “I guess that’s more believable than thinking you were on a hot date.”
The words sting. Twenty-five years of living with her and I should be used to her barbs.
For once, my mom seems to be self-aware enough to realize she’s hurt me. She clears her throat and says, “You know I only joke about this, my little chunky monkey.”
Chunky monkey.
I’m pretty sure that Stella Hunter’s greatest disappointment is that she had a fat, plain daughter that didn’t want to follow in her footsteps and become a supermodel.
“I’m going to bed,” I mutter, retreating from the room.
My mom has never understood me, and I can’t expect her to start now. I remind myself of this as I kick off my shoes and crawl onto my bed.
I grab my trusty laptop and open the document, determined to lose myself in the feel of my fictional boyfriend’s arms.
I know it’s pathetic—to be writing about Michael like this. But it’s not as if he’d ever look at me and see anything more than what my mom does. Just a sad loser who writes stories about her boss.
3
MICHAEL
