Wren interrupts us by setting two nearly overflowing shot glasses down. “Hey, Cocker, those pretty girls bought you and your cousin some tequila shots.”
Ben and I flick a glance over at two flirtatious smiles sitting four barstools around the bend.
We lift the freebies in salute.
I call over, “Thanks, ladies!”
Finger-waves is what we get.
That and batting eyelashes.
Guess they forgot how to speak.
I eyeball Wren to see if she’s jealous, maybe just a little bit.
She’s not.
“My cousin here is married. Should we tell them?”
She gives Ben a wink, “Let ‘em dream.” Those laughing eyes lock on me before she dryly adds, “And you can be their nightmare.”
Ben and I bend back like we’ve been shot with badassery, groaning that she got me good. Proud of herself she vanishes into her work again.
My cousin and I lock eyes. I smirk, “Okay, maybe I want her for two weekends. Here, drink this. I can’t.”
CHAPTER 13
WREN
M otown croons from a playlist I carefully compiled for housework. I’m on hands and knees scrubbing my kitchen floor and this kind of music helps the medicine go down. Woke up with an urge to scour.
Knees barking for a break I stand up and stretch. “Oh God, that feels good! Uhhh!!!”
A few minutes and fresher water later—I Heard It Through The Grapevine by Marvin Gaye, making my butt bounce—I’m on the floor scrubbing the last eight months, maybe nine, from my tiles.
The phone has bounced across the granite counter several times during however long I’ve been down here. I knew if I picked it up I’d stop cleaning. Couldn’t take the chance of a two-toned floor haunting my weeks to come. Living alone I can get away with a lot, I’m the queen of this shoebox, but a kitchen of half clean half filth? Nope nope nope. I don’t need that kind of guilt. Over time gradually growing darker in a consistent fashion, that I am fine with.
After at least another hour I swirl my hips to the end beats of Brick House by the Commodores and step back to appreciate my work. “Who’s got an awesome kitchen? I do! That’s right. That’s right! Oh yeah, oh yeah, boom!”
Snatching the phone on my way to a shower I scan the notifications and see Mike, my Mom, and my old bandmate, Ginny. Surprised, I stop to listen to her message right away.
“Hi Wren, how ya been? Listen, we’re playing The Drunken Unicorn on the 14th and wanted to see if you’d like to come?”
My heart is pounding way too hard for me to call her back, so I toss the phone on my bed and don’t move for a whole three minutes. Rushing over and snatching it up, my trembling thumb hovers over her number and dials Mike.
“Hey, what’s up?” he answers, sounds of the loud bar in the background.
“Just turning my home into a better version of itself. You called?”
“Yeah, uh, Eric Cocker is here asking about you.”
Peeling strands of wet hair from my forehead I blink a couple times. “He really is determined isn’t he?”
Mike chuckles, “Looks like it.”
“Tell him I’m not a notch to carve into his goal post.”
“I’m not telling the star player who brings in thousands of bucks for us every week, that. Maybe he likes you, ever thought of that?”
“Yeah right,” I laugh. “He’s a guy who gets what he wants and for once he can’t. That’s all this is. Tell him I’m cleaning my floors or I’d so be there.”
Mike snorts, “Nice priorities,” and hangs up.
“Dumbass,” I mutter, texting back my mom that I’ll see her in an hour. Tossing the phone back on the bed I head into the bathroom to wash off this goo, and the nervousness Ginny’s invite just gifted me.
“O h that’s a good idea, Wren,” Mom smiles, excitedly telling our lunch server on the patio of Meehans. “I’ll have a sweet tea like my daughter is having, and the salmon with sautéed kale. Do you have french fries?”
“We do. Shoestring.”
She lights up even more, making me smile. “Oh yay! Those please. We have a thing for potatoes.”
Agreeing with her I add, “You cook ‘em we’ll eat ‘em. But fried is our favorite.”
He takes our menus. “I don’t trust a person who doesn’t like french fries. I’ll get those sweet teas for you ladies.”
“Thank you,” Mom and I say in unison as he strolls off, sunlight dappled around him.
“I used to think it was silly that we have to put our napkins on our laps. I’m not afraid of spilling. What’s the point. It’s such a thing. Then you know what I found out?”
“What?” she asks, absently sculpting her short hair into place, just in case the light amount of hairspray wasn’t enough. My mother is an older version of me except she’s not an artist, she’s got a Southern accent, and she prefers short hair. Also she has no tattoos, which pretty much falls under the first category. Not that all creative people get ink, but the vast majority, for sure.
“Well I thought it was dumb so I rebelled and left my napkin on the table. But I was having a burger. And I wore lipstick. With the grease from my fingers, the dripping mustard I had to wipe off, the lipstick that came off with it, if I’d have left that on the table a second longer I would have lost my appetite!”
Mom laughs, “So we’re hiding the mess?”
“Yes!” I grin. “That’s why it’s civilized. We look all perfect up here but hidden on our laps is the grime and grit of reality!”
“Oh, how your mind works, Wren. This is why I wish you hadn’t given up singing.”
I glance down. “I wondered how long it would take for you to bring that up.”
Her lips go prim, but she doesn’t argue.
Sighing I tell her, “Ginny called me today.”
“Oh?”
“Mom, don’t look so excited.”
“Well, what did she say?”
Playing with the
