Then I add a smiley emoji so as not to sound too preachy.
I put the phone away and imagine the two of them, mother and daughter, walking into a grim underground room equipped with free coffee, donuts, and a lot of gloomy feelings. And the sad truth is that, right now, I’d rather be at an AA meeting for “endangered” teens with Tegan and Vivian instead of having to spend another minute on this date. I mean, at least they get free donuts.
Even knowing my acquaintance with Meadow is doomed and will be as short-lived as our dinner, I keep making polite conversation for the rest of the evening. But when the end of the meal finally arrives, I don’t know how to say goodbye. The witch and I aren’t going on a second date, that’s for sure. But how can I break the news gently? Witches deserve to have their feelings spared like any other woman. Assuming Meadow is interested in a second date at all. Should I even say anything, or will the agency take care of everything? Jennifer, my Dating Specialist, said something about a follow-up call to collect feedback.
I take a sip of water, trying to decide how to say goodbye, when Meadow, with the most casual tone in the world, says, “This has been a wonderful evening. Do you want to go have sex?”
Half the water spurts out of my mouth, splattering on myself and my half of the table, but thankfully not reaching Meadow.
I use my napkin to dry my face. “Excuse me?” And just because I can’t have heard her right, I say, “You asked me if I wanted to go have sex?”
With the same easygoing attitude, Meadow says, “Yeah, I want to do a scrying ritual at midnight; a friend has asked me to take a peek into her future. And sex is great to raise earthly energy and create magical power.”
Sorry, that’ll be a hard pass. Also, Garrett, you’re so dead.
Fifteen
Vivian
“Who are you texting?” I ask my daughter. “Aren’t all your friends on WhatsApp or Snapchat these days? I thought texts were dead.”
“I’m not chatting with my friends,” Tegan replies, her thumbs moving over the buttons of the ancient phone I gave her for emergencies. Composing a text is taking her thrice the time it’d take on a modern smartphone.
“Who are you texting, then?” I repeat, annoyed she’s purposely giving me half-answers.
Tegan puts her thumbs on hold for a second and stares up at me. “My therapist.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “That man is not your therapist, and why are you texting him?”
“To ask him if he can get me out of this crazy idea you’ve gotten into your head. I don’t need an AA meeting, Mom.”
Her phone pings. Tegan reads the text, and frowns.
“So?”
“Luke says AA isn’t necessary.”
“Really?” Shrek can be a pain to deal with, but he doesn’t strike me as someone who’d so blatantly undermine a parent’s authority, especially not when he’s wearing his therapist hat. She must be paraphrasing. “Is that all?”
Tegan sighs. “No, he also says it won’t do me any harm.”
“Now that we have your therapist’s blessing, can we go?” We’re standing in the tiny entrance hall of our house, already dressed and ready to leave. Only, Tegan has dug her metaphorical heels into the carpet and is refusing to get out.
“Mom, please. I promise I won’t drink again until I’m twenty-one, but can we please not go?” And I swear, I’ve had to deal with my fair share of hard-bitten opposing counsels, but I’m quickly discovering they’re all amateurs compared to a teenager who thinks she’s being treated unfairly. “I already missed the game today, and all my friends are out having fun. And it’s okay that I’m grounded but going to an AA meeting is just lame. I’m not an alcoholic. What if someone recognizes us?”
“The people there don’t care who you are, Tegan. That’s why it’s called Alcoholics Anonymous.”
“But what if we bump into someone we know? What will they think of us?”
“Same you’d think about them: that they have a problem and are trying to cope with it.”
“I don’t have a drinking problem! It was just one mistake, Mom. This is stupid.”
“You think this is how I wanted to spend my Saturday night?”
“Why? You had something better to do? You never go out.”
“For your information, I had a match at the dating agency and was supposed to be on my first date tonight.”
“And you didn’t go because of this? Why? We could’ve gone any other day.”
“No, the meeting I’m taking you to is specifically tailored for teens. People your age and older will share their stories, and I want you to listen to them carefully, so maybe next time someone offers you a drink at school you’ll know how to say no.”
“Or, you were scared to go on your first date in forever, and are using your”—Tegan makes a theatrical expression, moving her arms all over the place—“deranged daughter as an excuse.”
I stare her down without replying.
After a few long seconds, she lowers her gaze. “Sorry, that wasn’t fair.”
I nod, just as her phone pings with three incoming messages.
“Your therapist?” I ask icily.
Tegan nods.
“What does he have to say now?”
She doesn’t answer me, and precedes me out of the house, protesting, “This is bullshit.”
“Language, young lady,” I call as I follow her. “Unless you want to spend next Saturday at a meeting for disrespectful teens.” I lock the door to our brownstone townhouse and prepare myself for a bleak few hours.
How I miss tiny rompers and even diaper changes, to be honest, when my biggest problem was breast or bottle. Those were the real golden years. I should’ve listened to all the people who told me to enjoy them because kids grow up so fast things only get worse and wait until they’re teenagers.
Unfortunately, the wait is so over.
***
The rest of the weekend passes just as dimly. Sunday, it rains all day, so Tegan and I are
