Bad Mommy(15)

After Mercy and I were finished reading, she snuggled into bed without complaint and closed her eyes. I kissed her little forehead, marveling at her perfect eyelashes and then quietly put the books back on the bookshelf before tiptoeing out. Darius was seated in the living room with his feet propped on the ottoman, reading a Stephen King book that was larger than all of my books put together. Jolene was nowhere to be seen.

“Wow, that’s a big one,” I said.

“That’s what she said,” Darius retorted.

I laughed a little and stood awkwardly in the doorway not knowing what to do. It was time to leave, I knew that, but something about walking over to my dark house and going to bed alone was making me feel depressed.

“I’ll walk you home, Fig,” he said. Then, as an afterthought he added, “Jolene has a headache, she went ahead and took a shower and went to bed. She said to say goodbye.”

I nodded, thrilled at having him to myself for even a few minutes.

We headed out the door and I felt tight all over. This was nice, this was really nice. Not many men cared quite as much.

“You know if you ever need to talk, I listen for a living,” he said.

“Hey, I’m okay. Got that survivor thing going on.” I sang a little Beyoncé and we both laughed. “Besides, I’m so fucked up I’d break the shrink.”

“Nah. That’s what I used to think about myself. When you live in your own head all the time, things contort. You have to voice your thoughts so you can know you’re not the only one who’s fucked up. It makes a big difference to know that.”

“Yeah, I guess.” I sounded noncommittal to my own ears.

He nodded like he understood. These things took time. I could hear him saying that to his patients.

“Your guy, what’s his name?”

“Ew, he’s not my guy,” I said.

“Fine, that guy you married that one time … Fred?”

“George,” I said.

“Weasley?”

“Huh?” I looked up, confused.

“Yikes, not a Harry Potter fan. You lose all cool points for that.”

“I’m so confused. What are we even talking about?”

Darius sighed. “George … divorce.”

“Oh,” I said. “Well, divorce is hard. I don’t know what to say other than that. I wanted one, then I didn’t want one, then I did. He thinks I’m a terrible person.”

“Things with exes get messy,” he agreed. “Mine still lives in the area. We see her sometimes when we’re out to dinner or something. Uncomfortable is a weak word to use for that sort of situation.”

I perked up at the information.

“Did it end messy?” I asked, peeking at him from the corner of my eye.

“Well, yes. Sort of. Definitely yes. We were engaged, and I called off the wedding because I wanted to be with Jolene.”

“Did your ex and Jolene know each other?” I asked.

“They were friends, yes.”

That’s all he said, and we were outside my door. I wanted to rewind, start over, know more.

“Hey, thanks for having me over. The meatloaf was perfection.”

He smiled and turned to walk back down the path.

“Hey,” he called back. “Have you ever heard that song by Miranda Dodson, “Try Again”?”

I shook my head.

“You should.”

I watched him walk back down the drive and along the sidewalk to his house before I unlocked my door and walked in. I found the song on Spotify right away and played it over and over while drinking tea at the dinette, and while brushing my teeth, and while climbing into bed. I went to sleep listening to the song Darius gave me. The greatest gift.



Barbra Streisand is my idol. “I Finally Found Someone” is probably the greatest song ever written. People my age were listening to that salty crap on the radio. Pop star voices gyrating and thrusting around like vocal whores. You don’t need all of that hoopla in music, you need raw honesty—the type of honesty Barbra Streisand delivered in songs like “Guilty”—and oh god—“Memory.” I sobbed like a baby in “Memory.” Darius liked her too, along with Jeff Bridges, who he emphatically said was the love of his life. Jolene always made a face at that. She made a lot of faces actually, all of them aimed at Darius. She was a completely different person with me, nurturing and attentive. She was dismissive of Darius and Jeff Bridges, and it seemed to me that they were a package deal.

“Couldn’t you choose someone better? He creeps me out,” she said. “We could both love Bradley Cooper together.” She hated anything that had vast popularity. Bradley Cooper was a joke; she didn’t actually love Bradley Cooper. She was annoyed with humor—that included comedies and Saturday Night Live. What kind of monster hated Saturday Night Live? There was a long list, in fact, of things she hated: Beyoncé, and pizza, baseball, and Alicia Silverstone in Clueless, Bananagrams—which was our favorite game. We held our ground, teaming up against her to argue the merits of baseball, making fun of her for not having a sense of humor. She was unfazed and I wondered what it was like to not care about what people thought of you.

Darius loved the dude, and I loved Darius for loving the dude. I wasn’t an unsupportive cunt like Jolene. He would see that soon. l