Not some crazy, burn-the-lining-of-your-esophagus pizza, but a nice, plain cheese pizza. With extra cheese. Comfort pizza.
Kate walked into the room with a bottle of wine tucked under her arm. Millie smiled gratefully as she watched her friend work the cork from the bottle with a twist of her wrist and a hushed thwunk. Had she been left to her own devices, Millie would have yanked and pulled at the corkscrew until she broke the cork. Then she would have poked it down into the bottle and drank it anyway, claiming that a little flotsam never hurt anyone.
“I’m not helpless, you know,” she said as Kate made room for the bottle among all the other offerings.
“We know.” Without missing a beat, Kate pulled a bottle of water from each pocket of her track pants and wedged them into the couch cushions. “One bottle for every glass of wine,” she instructed sternly.
“She’s the booze monitor,” Avery huffed as she came back into the room carrying the open case of bottled water. “I’m in charge of junk food. Anything you don’t see, you tell me. I know a guy at the market,” she added, waggling her eyebrows. “I get free delivery.”
Kate slid down to the floor with an audible groan, then pushed back until she was propped against the sofa beside Millie’s knees. “Avery, trading tit for taters isn’t exactly free.”
Their friend had the good grace to laugh at the crack as she fell into the tiny living room’s only other piece of furniture, an overstuffed armchair that Ty would have made look like it belonged in a kindergarten classroom. Millie smiled at the two women. How lucky was she to have friends like these? Reaching down, she gave Kate’s shoulder a pat. “Plenty of room up here.”
Kate shook her head and stretched her long legs out in front of her. “Nah, I’m more comfortable down here.” She reached for the remote, and seconds later, the television lit up with the logo of a movie-streaming website. “Are we going nostalgic with John Hughes, mildly bitter and blatantly satiric with Rob Reiner, or the comedic genius of Mel Brooks?”
“Or my personal favorite wallowing movie of all time: Fatal Attraction?” Avery chimed in.
“I told you, no bunny boilers,” Kate retorted in a tone that said she’d make Avery run laps if she could.
“Fine.” Avery pouted for a second, then brightened. “Thelma and Louise? Heathers? The Women?”
“Guys,” Millie said, interrupting their banter.
Kate blinked. “Hmm?”
Avery’s forehead puckered. She hated being interrupted midflow. “What?”
Millie inhaled through her nose, surveying the array of caloric comfort her friends had provided for the second time in her nonexistent menstrual cycle and gathering the courage to ask the question plaguing her since Ty walked out of her life. “Do you think I’d be a good mom?”
Both women did excellent owl imitations, but neither offered up an opinion. Their silence made her nervous.
“I mean, not like a real mom, but more like a…” She trailed off, unable to finish the presumptuous thought.
“Stepmom?” Kate ventured, her voice tinged with equal parts caution and optimism.
“Yeah.” The second the confirmation was out of her mouth, Millie rushed to qualify the question. “Not that anyone has asked anyone to be one, but…in general.”
“Depends,” Avery said at last. “Are you worried you’ll be a Disney-caliber stepmother?” She wagged her head, and the riot of curls flew all around her elfin face. “No. Not even close.” She shrugged. “If you’re shooting for June Cleaver—”
“Or Donna Reed,” Kate chimed in.
Avery acknowledged the addition with a nod. “—or even Carol Brady, I’d say you’re lacking a certain, I don’t know, Stepford quality.”
“You could definitely pull off Peggy Bundy,” Kate assured her.
Avery snapped her fingers. “Marge Simpson.”
“No, wait! Lorelai Gilmore,” Kate crowed, sitting up straighter. “Smart, funny, the edgy-sarcasm thing, but totally hip and cool.”
Beaming her agreement, Avery reached for a relish tray filled with licorice whips, Skittles, Hot Tamales, and a neatly stacked pyramid of unwrapped Rolos and snagged a handful of rainbow-colored candies. “Yes, you can definitely do a Lorelai Gilmore thing. She was really good with that little mutant Christopher had with the flaky chick.”
Kate snorted. “And Luke’s DNA dork of a daughter.”
“Not to mention Rory. Duh.” Avery pulled a grimace, then cocked her head. “You know, I liked Luke’s daughter, April. I thought she was a nice kid. It’s not her fault she had a schizophrenic mother.”
“Schizophrenic mother?” Kate asked.
“Same actress played another part in an earlier season.”
Millie watched the two of them go back and forth. If they weren’t discussing her life with such blithe references to television characters, she would have been as enthralled as any spectator with center court seats for Wimbledon. But it was her life they were discussing. And she’d asked her two best friends what was possibly the most soul-bearing question she’d ever asked anyone.
“Hey!” Much to her gratification, both women jumped. Avery even had the good grace to choke on a Skittle. Millie waited until the younger woman was done pounding her chest and doing a self-Heimlich. When her coughs downshifted into excessive throat clearing, Millie nodded to the bottle of wine. “Wash it down.”
Not waiting to be asked twice, Avery grabbed the bottle and downed a healthy swig.
Millie counted to three as she fought for patience. “Can we leave fictional characters out of this discussion and try to stay somewhere in the vicinity of reality?”
Kate looked affronted, but only for a second.
