Page 19 of Life, Love, and Other Messes

“Want to know a secret?”

“Sure.”

“I used to watch you and Cheryl Sammons up in the hayloft.”

My jaw dropped. “What?”

“When the apple trees leafed out, I could sit up there for hours and nobody would be the wiser.”

“There weren’t any apple trees close enough to…I mean, without binoculars or something.” When Smash-and-Grab grinned, I groaned. “Oh, Jesus Christ. We got naked up there for fuck’s sake.”

“More than once.”

“Oh my God.”

“I’d sit there and so wish I was Cheryl Sammons.” Smash-and-Grab’s voice went wistful. “Well, except the couple times it was Becky Luckeroth instead.”

Shit. My face was on fire. I set my head on Smash-and-Grab’s shoulder, the hearty sound of her laughter echoing throughout my body until I couldn’t help but laugh, too. “Please tell me you’re the only one who knows.”

She nudged me hard. “Like I was going to share that.”

I kissed her. Everything was my fault, really, because I was the one who looked up and kissed her squarely on the mouth, although both of us took off running with it. The memories of rolling around with girls who were now married to men with kids meshed nicely with the intoxicated naughtiness of making out on the country club sidewalk not twenty feet from a door leading to Cami’s wedding reception, and it made things happen too fast. Our kissing was remarkably sloppy, and all at once we were a tangle of appendages and baby blue crepe.

My ears were ringing so hard that I almost didn’t notice the click of the door latch somewhere above us. Fortunately, Smash-and-Grab did, and in the split-second it took me to turn my head toward the door, she somehow managed to shove my boob back into my dress. By the time an elderly couple emerged onto the patio, we were both standing up, as covered as we’d ever been, staring at them accusingly and gasping for breath.

They gave us a strange look, but went to walk the path around the pond. Smash-and-Grab took my hand and pulled me toward the door. “Come on. My car’s in the lot.”

“I don’t know that you should drive.”

“I’m not going to drive it, stupid. I just want to finish fucking you, okay?”

I agreed, letting go of her hand as we passed through a tight crowd of partygoers. Sounds good. I’d done dumber things.

Of course, Smash-and-Grab’s path took us straight toward where my mother was sipping coffee and talking with several women from church, an ugly, irritated look still on her face. “There you are,” she said. She set down her coffee and started to gather her things, as if she’d been waiting forever so we could just leave and get the tongue-lashing over with. “I’ve sent your father looking all over for you.”

I’d seen him watching baseball in the bar, but I didn’t get a chance to respond, because I heard a small, bizarre noise somewhere behind my right shoulder and all at once, my mother’s pissy look became one of absolute, unadulterated horror. She wasn’t the only one, either. The church receptionist’s eyes grew wide, old Mrs. Battle’s hand jumped to cover her mouth, and Genevieve Wheedle whipped around to see what was going on. Before I could turn completely, Smash-and-Grab had vomited in the most spectacular way, across literally feet of parquet dance floor.

The hum of conversation stopped, leaving only the band playing a rough version of “Tequila,” and every person in the hall turned to look in our direction. Cami’s nose wrinkled from where she was standing with her new husband on the dance floor. Gerald gazed over from the doorway with vague interest. I probably should have done something helpful instead of just standing there, but honestly, I was frozen to the spot. I hadn’t even managed to look back from the ocean of vomit to Smash-and-Grab when her mother breezed in from the other side of the room, took her by the elbow, bid us good night in a completely pleasant tone, and shuttled her daughter out the door as if this was an everyday occurrence. She was so polished that I wondered if it was.

“Oh nice.” Mom shook her head in disgust. “Go find your father. Now.”

The words yes, ma’am almost came out of my mouth, but I wasn’t six, so I stopped them, just turned and left in the direction from whence I’d come. I made a beeline to the bar, where Dad was, indeed, sitting, his eyes glued to the Cardinals game, his fork poised over half a piece of cake. Two empty glasses sat beside him. “Hi, Sam.” His smile was weary. “You want some cake? I’m not going to finish it.”

I climbed up on the stool next to him and took his fork. “So I’m on Mom’s shit list again.”

“I’m sure it’s not that bad.”

“I think she will not be sad when I say I’m not staying for church.”

“She’s always sad when you say you’re not staying for church.”

“Trust me on this one.”

“The cake’s not bad, is it? Better than you’d expect.”

I was trying not to lick the fork. “Not bad at all.”

He stuck a five in the tip jar and held out his hand to me. “Shall we do this?”