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“This should help.” She pushed a huge glass of wine into my hand and grabbed a bottle in a chiller, nodding toward the back patio. “Let’s go out.” The girls both followed.
We sat down out back, watching the kids jump and roll around in the grass. It was cool, but the sun had shone all day and there was no breeze to set me shivering. Delia tossed me a blanket, which I wrapped across my shoulders. I sat across from Carl and Delia, noticing the way his hand drifted to her arm, how she leaned her long body toward his when he sat next to her. I could have taken a photograph of this moment and held it up to other people to explain what family looked like to me, what I thought happiness would look like. If I could find a way to articulate this exactly, you could bet your ass it’d be on my list. Every inch of me wanted some part of what they had, some ounce of warm loving familiarity where only my cold lonely apartment currently stood.
“What’s going on?” Delia’s brows furrowed and she leaned forward to peer at me, her dark eyes taking in something I didn’t know I was showing.
I shrugged. “What?” I could never hide a thing from Delia.
She took care of me in many ways, and that hadn’t stopped when she’d aged out three years ahead of me. She had still come to Wednesday dinners at Mama Gi’s house—that’s what we called our foster mom. We were lucky. Our stories weren’t the sad ones you read about, the ones that make you shake your head and curse the unfairness of “the system.” We’d been fed, clothed, cared for, and maybe even loved. Mama Gi had done well for us, and made sure we did well for ourselves. When she died a few years after I’d left for college, it was one of the most difficult times of my life. She was the only mother I’d ever really known, even though I’d been in three foster homes before hers. I still missed her every day, still smelled gardenia when I thought about her hard enough, and she was part of the reason Delia still insisted on weekly dinners. It was Mama Gi’s tradition.
“Let’s see,” Delia said, looking me over critically. “You’re thinner—I can tell because your boobs aren’t as big as usual.”
“Why are you judging my boob size?”
“Don’t pretend we haven’t been doing that since we were twelve.” She gave me a grope and then glanced at her husband, who was covering a dark blush by lifting his wineglass to his face. “And don’t pretend you don’t know that!” she scolded him.
I laughed as Carl shook his head. He was the strong, silent type, which was probably necessary for Delia. She was the opposite of silent, but she had strength in spades.
“So you’re not eating. You’re probably spending way too much time ordering your crazy fancy coffees at work, and then staying late and trying to knock something off that stupid plan of yours. Which number are you on? What number is world domination again?”
“I’m still on number one.”
She shook her head. “You got the job. Time for number two. Where’s the hot man with all the orgasms in his pocket?”
“That’s not number two.”
“What is number two?” Carl asked.
I put down my wineglass after taking a healthy gulp. “I know you guys think it’s stupid, but the plan keeps me focused. And number one is a work in progress. I got the wrong job at the right company. And that’s why I look tired. I’m fixing that.”
“You still didn’t tell me number two,” Carl pointed out as Delia laughed and shook her head.
“Number two is a relationship.”
“That’s pretty nonspecific,” he said. “There’s a site online that Deel likes. You could get into a pretty serious relationship with some of the vibrators she’s picked up. I swear she has one that likes to snuggle after.”
Delia’s long hand slapped down hard on Carl’s forearm, but she was laughing.
“Carl, if Delia is ordering complicated vibrators, do you think it’s a sign you might need to up your game?” I lifted an eyebrow, grinning at him.
Carl’s full lips flattened and his face dropped the humorous expression. “Girl, don’t question my manhood.”
I raised my hands in mock fear. “Never.”
“There’s no problem there, I can tell you,” Delia jumped in, rubbing her hand across Carl’s shoulder. “I just like to practice now and then. And you’re trying to dodge the question. Is there a man in the picture? Want Carl to introduce you to someone?” She nodded eagerly.
“No, there’s not a man in the picture,” I said slowly, thinking of Hale.
“What’s number three?” Carl asked.
“Family,” I replied, looking past them at the girls doing somersaults on the lawn. “But if it takes too much longer to knock number two off the list, I’ll move three up.”
“I think those things have kind of a natural chronology,” Carl said.
Delia shoved his arm hard. “Not anymore,” she told him. “Holland is a modern woman. If she wants a baby, she’ll have one. With or without a man.”
Carl looked confused. “Pretty sure the man is still a requirement,” he said.
My cheeks reddened. “Delia doesn’t think so,” I told him. “She brought me a bunch of brochures from a sperm bank.”
