penciled in a good-old-fashioned phone gab with Fiona on my mental
calendar. I may have also penciled in a good-old-fashioned fantasy session with
my vibrator, but I’ll never tell.
***
Charlotte’s house was just as I’d
imagined it to be – warm, comfortable, and wholly Southern. There were fresh
flowers and sweet tea and, most importantly, welcoming hugs and greetings all
around. Rocco suctioned himself to my leg but gradually loosened up as he saw
some of the other kids organizing a few games. He eschewed the round of tag in
the backyard – which, unsurprisingly, involved plastic knives and guns – and
instead wandered over to check out the X-box battle that was launching in the
next room over. However, he made sure to maintain an open line of sight to me
the entire time. I considered it a small win anyway.
Once I got a moment alone with
Charlotte, I told her (mostly) about my visit with Nate on Friday and the
information he’d shared. I explained to the best of my ability the cause of his
rude behavior and told her he wanted to apologize to her. When I asked for her
permission to pass on her number to him she graciously accepted, as I knew she
would. It seemed all was already forgiven in her eyes and she turned them to me
speculatively.
“So, do I sense a little chemistry
goin’ on here?”
“What? No, of course not!” I replied,
totally unconvincing in my hasty denial.
She just smiled and raised her
eyebrows. “Even if he was a class-A jerk, I’d have to be blind not to see the
sparks lightin’ up the air around you two.” She was way too smug in her demeanor.
“Oh, shut up,” I told her, and she
just giggled. Damn her cute little ass.
My job was done. I’d shared my
pertinent information, my kid was slightly engaged with others his own age and
I had a glass of real Texas sweet tea. Ugh, why do people like this stuff?
***
“Remind me. Why are you always over
here when you could have a totally awesome night life of hot guys and no
responsibility?”
Instead of the phone call, Fiona
had elected to come by my house for our girl gab. Seriously, she could be out
doing anything she wanted at any time. She had money to party or go on
vacations or buy out the entire SkyMall catalogue – hey, some of that stuff
is cool – but she chose to spend the majority of her time with me and my
dysfunctional little family. To say she came from
money was like saying Ghirardelli double fudge brownies were kind of okay .
The bitch was loaded. Luckily, she was completely missing the actual “bitch”
gene. She held rotating jobs mostly out of boredom and, I suspect, to
generate stories to share with me when we got together. That’s real friendship
for you.
Truthfully, though, I don’t think
Fiona knew what she wanted to do with her life so it was easier to just keep
busy and keep postponing life decisions. With her family’s wealth she didn’t
actually have to work if she didn’t choose to.
In direct contrast to all the rich
snob stereotypes, her parents were wonderful people who were in full support of
any decisions Fiona made – and I mean any decisions. She could decide to
move to some inner city to teach underprivileged kids, or tour Europe on a three-year
luxury excursion, or tattoo her entire body and pose naked for a magazine
spread. Nothing but love and encouragement would come her way. It was, in
effect, the simplest and most authentic relationship between parents and child
I’d ever seen.
When Fiona had been nine years old
she’d received a death sentence in the form of an aggressive leukemia
diagnosis. Through bottomless funds, prayer, and a wealth of medical miracles
she had survived, and not only that, she’d thrived beyond basic remission and
into adulthood as a healthy, happy, and wonderful person.
Sure, the aggressive treatments had
resulted in her short stature and a slightly increased risk of developing a
possible subsequent cancer during the course of her life, but she was
calendar. I may have also penciled in a good-old-fashioned fantasy session with
my vibrator, but I’ll never tell.
***
Charlotte’s house was just as I’d
imagined it to be – warm, comfortable, and wholly Southern. There were fresh
flowers and sweet tea and, most importantly, welcoming hugs and greetings all
around. Rocco suctioned himself to my leg but gradually loosened up as he saw
some of the other kids organizing a few games. He eschewed the round of tag in
the backyard – which, unsurprisingly, involved plastic knives and guns – and
instead wandered over to check out the X-box battle that was launching in the
next room over. However, he made sure to maintain an open line of sight to me
the entire time. I considered it a small win anyway.
Once I got a moment alone with
Charlotte, I told her (mostly) about my visit with Nate on Friday and the
information he’d shared. I explained to the best of my ability the cause of his
rude behavior and told her he wanted to apologize to her. When I asked for her
permission to pass on her number to him she graciously accepted, as I knew she
would. It seemed all was already forgiven in her eyes and she turned them to me
speculatively.
“So, do I sense a little chemistry
goin’ on here?”
“What? No, of course not!” I replied,
totally unconvincing in my hasty denial.
She just smiled and raised her
eyebrows. “Even if he was a class-A jerk, I’d have to be blind not to see the
sparks lightin’ up the air around you two.” She was way too smug in her demeanor.
“Oh, shut up,” I told her, and she
just giggled. Damn her cute little ass.
My job was done. I’d shared my
pertinent information, my kid was slightly engaged with others his own age and
I had a glass of real Texas sweet tea. Ugh, why do people like this stuff?
***
“Remind me. Why are you always over
here when you could have a totally awesome night life of hot guys and no
responsibility?”
Instead of the phone call, Fiona
had elected to come by my house for our girl gab. Seriously, she could be out
doing anything she wanted at any time. She had money to party or go on
vacations or buy out the entire SkyMall catalogue – hey, some of that stuff
is cool – but she chose to spend the majority of her time with me and my
dysfunctional little family. To say she came from
money was like saying Ghirardelli double fudge brownies were kind of okay .
The bitch was loaded. Luckily, she was completely missing the actual “bitch”
gene. She held rotating jobs mostly out of boredom and, I suspect, to
generate stories to share with me when we got together. That’s real friendship
for you.
Truthfully, though, I don’t think
Fiona knew what she wanted to do with her life so it was easier to just keep
busy and keep postponing life decisions. With her family’s wealth she didn’t
actually have to work if she didn’t choose to.
In direct contrast to all the rich
snob stereotypes, her parents were wonderful people who were in full support of
any decisions Fiona made – and I mean any decisions. She could decide to
move to some inner city to teach underprivileged kids, or tour Europe on a three-year
luxury excursion, or tattoo her entire body and pose naked for a magazine
spread. Nothing but love and encouragement would come her way. It was, in
effect, the simplest and most authentic relationship between parents and child
I’d ever seen.
When Fiona had been nine years old
she’d received a death sentence in the form of an aggressive leukemia
diagnosis. Through bottomless funds, prayer, and a wealth of medical miracles
she had survived, and not only that, she’d thrived beyond basic remission and
into adulthood as a healthy, happy, and wonderful person.
Sure, the aggressive treatments had
resulted in her short stature and a slightly increased risk of developing a
possible subsequent cancer during the course of her life, but she was
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