Dirty Rowdy Thing (Wild Seasons, #2)(25)

“You did so f*cking good, sweet girl.”





Chapter FIVE


Harlow


I DON’T REALLY KNOW how I would feel three days after having both of my breasts removed, but given what an important part of my body they are, I can imagine I’d be doing the exact same thing my mother has done since Monday: sleep, and cry.

And there is nothing, literally nothing any of us can do to make her feel better. Mom has never been particularly vain, but her career was obviously dependent on her body. So even though at forty-five she would be unlikely to get a bikini-dependent film role, anyway, and the newsmagazines are highlighting her bravery and strength, she really just hates no longer having what was admittedly an awesome pair of boobs. Plus—and Mom is tougher than nails—I can tell how painful her recovery from surgery is.

She’s released from the hospital on Wednesday morning, and Dad, Bellamy, and I spend most of the day sitting in bed with her, watching reruns of Law & Order while she sleeps. By Thursday afternoon, we’re all restless, unshowered, and picking at each other.

I now know what would go down if the four of us were ever trapped together in a bomb shelter: murder. The incessant chirping of Bellamy’s cell phone is making Dad homicidal. Bellamy keeps talking about how hot the room is. And Mom tells me, “If you offer me food one more time I’m going to throw this remote at your head. Sorry, sweetie.”

For the family that never really fights, we sure are a testy bunch.

Finally, Dad pulls us both aside in the hall. “Girls, I love you,” he says, laying a hand on each of our shoulders. “But please get out of my house. Just go get back to your lives for a couple of days. I’ll call you with any updates.”

The problem is it’s not really that easy. I detest the morbid, niggling sense I have after talking to Finn at lunch on Tuesday that my mother is going to die. I can’t talk about it with anyone, and even if I could, giving voice to it would only make me feel like I was validating the possibility or—worse— turning it into reality, somehow. I have too much free time to think; my part-time job isn’t nearly absorbing enough, I can only run or spend so many hours at the beach, and my friends have packed schedules from morning to night. All of them, that is, except Finn.

Once Bellamy has driven away, I stand on my parents’ driveway and forcibly pull myself together.

It feels literal: Pick up the pieces and put them where they belong. Pull the spine straight. Tie my still-wet hair back in a messy bun. Smooth my hands down the rumpled front of my T-shirt and jeans. Slap on a smile.

I’m making everyone join me at Fred’s, and I won’t take no for an answer.

“NO,” LOLA SAYS, and then I hear a loud clang in the background. “I can’t tonight. I need to finish these panels. And Mia said she and Ansel are staying in, since he’s leaving tomorrow and won’t be back for a few weeks.”

“I’m barely keeping my shit together, Lorelei Louise Castle.”

“You’re going to bust out my full name?”

“I didn’t brush my hair after I showered, I’m wearing one of Bellamy’s Hello Kitty titty shirts because I forgot all my clothes at home, and the Latin Love Machine”—Lola and Mia have a bit of a thing for my dad—“kicked me out of the house until further notice. Get your ass to the Regal Beagle.”

She sighs. “Fine.”

Fred Furley opened Fred’s Bar in 1969, when he was only twenty-seven. Now he’s seventy-two, has been married (and divorced) six times, and loves my mother maybe only a fraction less than my father does. I celebrated my twenty-first birthday here, and Mr. Furley only let me have two shots. Perhaps relatedly, I went home sober and alone. He’s loosened up somewhat, but he still likes to play the role of father figure, which is probably why I’m so comfortable being here. Besides, it’s a way better regular hangout than a coffee shop because, hello, booze.

It took him about seven years to understand why my dad called the bar the Regal Beagle, but the name stuck even if Mr. Furley is nothing like the guy from Three’s Company . He’s calm, tanned, and fit and gives me almost anything I want.

Like Thursday Ladies Nights.

Ansel and Mia picked up Lola and Finn on their way over here, and they arrive around the same time Not-Joe stumbles from his beach cruiser, parking it haphazardly against the side of the building.

“Where’s Olls, Ollie, Olzifer?” I ask with a silly grin.

Lola pulls back, studying me. “Are you already drunk?”

“No. Just . . . in a weird mood.” And it’s true. I feel a little unsteady, like if I stop moving I’ll crack and the crazy will spill out onto the street like a pool of oil. “I’ll probably be better once I’m drunk, actually.”

“Oliver’s meeting us here,” Ansel says. He’s the only one who isn’t looking at me like my hair’s on fire and I’m full of nitroglycerin.

Finn is watching me, his eyes hidden by the brim of his hat. “You okay, Ginger Snap?”

I nod. “No.” I take his arm and use the opportunity to grope his bulgy-hot bicep. “Yes? I guess.

Weird day?”

“I hear that,” he says, leading me inside.

Mr. Furley renovated the interior of Fred’s a few years back, but at my mother’s insistence he kept the décor almost exactly the same and just brought in new tables, chairs and booths, fresh paint, and flooring. Like I said, Fred loves Mom. Yet another reason to love this place: We have our own booth in the back corner with a RESERVED card keeping people out whenever we’re not here. The truth is, Fred’s is rarely busy enough for someone to try to snag our table, but the gesture still makes me feel like a bit of a badass.