Rock Bottom Girl(94)
I gasped. “When did Rich’s mom move in with you?”
Vicky scrunched up her nose and thought. “Three years ago? Yeah. Right after Rich’s dad died.”
The margaritas arrived, and I took a guilty sip. I’d had no idea Vicky’s father-in-law died or that her mother-in-law had moved in with them. Granted, we’d drifted apart. But given the fact that she’d willingly jumped in to keep me from drowning with the soccer team, well, I felt I owed her a whole lot of back interest.
“I’m so sorry, V.”
She waved it away. “It’s fine. We make it work. And honestly, it’s nice having a third generation in the house. She doesn’t take any shit from Blaire and helps me out with the littles. I’m never going to be good enough for her son, but that goes with the territory.”
I sampled the salsa with a still warm chip.
“Did you guys always plan on three kids?” I asked, feeling like I was making awkward small talk with a stranger. I’d been absent from Vicky’s life for so long, I forgot that she wasn’t still a seventeen-year-old wild child.
She sucked down some mango margarita and nodded. “Yeah. Three was always the magic number. Of course Blaire was a bit of a surprise right out of college. But by the time we got around to the other two, she was a built-in mini nanny.”
“You seem really happy,” I observed.
She shot me a grin. “I am. I mean, I’m unemployed and driven insane daily by my family. But honestly, it’s a great freaking life. I’m surrounded by people I love every day. I’m watching these little weirdos that I created turn into people. My parents are minutes away. And Mama Rothermel is teaching me all about the kind of mother-in-law I don’t want to be.”
“It sounds pretty great,” I admitted.
“Yeah, well, I’m no Zinnia,” she said with a wink. “But I’m really, bone-deep happy. You know?”
No. I didn’t know. Nothing I’d ever done in life had given me that feeling. I’d been chasing it since forever. And the harder I ran, the farther away it seemed to get.
“Is this where you thought you’d be at thirty-eight?” I asked her.
“God no,” she snorted. “I was going to be a Broadway choreographer. Or a record label something or other. Oh! Or—”
“An MTV reality TV star!” We said it together, remembering our teenage obsession.
“What about you, Marley?” she asked. “How’s life these days? And by how’s life, I mean what does Jake look like naked?”
I choked on the salsa and washed it down with margarita.
“Life is good,” I said lightly. “And what makes you think I’ve seen him naked? We’re faking the relationship, remember?”
“Girl, you go from ‘woe-is-me’ wounded woman to strutting, smiling badass. You may be faking the relationship, but you’re not faking the orgasms.”
“I didn’t intend to sleep with him.”
“But?” Vicky rested her chin in her hands and sucked on the margarita straw.
“But have you seen him? He’s a sweaty sex god! And worse, he’s nice. He’s still got a little bit of that bad boy rebel going. But deep down, he’s this present-buying, dog-loving guy who just wants the best for everybody.”
“Oh, boy. You’ve got it bad.”
“I can’t help it. The man’s pheromones should be considered narcotics.”
“Then I’ve got to ask. Why, when you have Jake Weston’s presumably spectacular penis inside you and a job you’re starting to enjoy, would you just pack up and leave?”
I stumbled over the question and stuffed a chip in my mouth to buy myself some time. “Things with Jake and me are just temporary. He’s trying the whole relationship thing out to see if it’s something he’s really ready for. And I’m killing time before I can regroup and move on to something…bigger.” What was it with everyone questioning my decisions? I wasn’t about to stop chasing down the dreams I’d always had just because I got a little derailed.
“Bigger than Jake’s penis?” Vicky clarified.
“Bigger than Culpepper. I wouldn’t be happy here. Not long-term.” I hadn’t been happy here growing up. Why would I be happy here now? “By the way, Jake looks even better without clothes than he does in them.” I threw my naked fake boyfriend up as a distraction.
“Damn it! I knew it! Where does he fall on the orgasm Richter scale?”
“What’s the upper limit again?” I asked slyly.
“Oh, I hate you.”
“He’s really great,” I told her seriously. “He’s going to make some woman very, very lucky someday.”
“It sounds like you’ve forgiven him for his senior year transgressions,” she mused.
“Should we really hold anyone responsible for the hurt they dole out at eighteen? I mean, maybe I misread the signs?”
“He dragged you under the bleachers, kissed the crap out of you, and then told you you were with the wrong guy. And then he asked you to Homecoming and—”
“I am well aware of what happened,” I interrupted her. Some humiliations were better left locked in the dark, hidden away for all eternity.
“I’m just pointing out that we all made mistakes, and we all survived them. And just because you’re bearing some adolescent scars doesn’t mean that you have to avoid Culpepper forever. I’ve missed you.”