The F-Word

She’s quiet during our drive to the restaurant. I figure that she’s nervous, but when I glance over at her, her expression is calm.

“Hey,” I say.

She looks at me.

“You okay?” I ask.

She nods.

“Have I told you how fantastic you look?”

She nods again.

“Because you do. Look fantastic—”

“I’m okay,” she says quietly. “Stop worrying about me.”

“I’m not worrying. I just want you to have a good time tonight. This shouldn’t only be about your cousin. It should be about you. Understand?”

I pull up in front of the restaurant. The place is lit up like Times Square on New Year’s Eve. Two kids in white jackets that make them look like ice cream salesmen trot towards us. One aims for my side of the car, the other for Bailey’s.

“Tonight isn’t really about Violet or me,” she says softly. “It’s about you, Matthew, and what a wonderful man you are.”

She leans over and presses her lips lightly to my cheek, and I swear, I can feel everything inside me melting. I want to take her in my arms. Hold her. Kiss her…

Good Humor Boy number one yanks the door open.

“Your keys, sir?” he says, his eyes shining at the prospect of getting his hands on my ’Vette.

I swallow hard, get out of the car and hand the boy the keys and a bill. His eyes get even shinier.

“Park somewhere safe,” I tell him. “No scratches when I get my car back and you’ll get a second fifty. And if I even suspect you went for a joy ride, you’ll be attending high school in Antarctica next semester. Got that?”

Bailey laughs as I walk around the car to her. She loops her arm through mine.

“So much for Mister Wonderful,” I say, because it’s safer than what I want to say, even if I’m not quite sure what that is.

She smiles up at me and before she can answer, a middle-aged woman shrieks. And gallops towards us.

“BAILEY!”

My PA takes a deep breath. “Showtime,” she whispers, and we’re off and running.

* * *

The shrieker is Bailey’s mother.

She also turns out to be a nice woman, once we get past the necessary maternal preliminaries.

“Why didn’t you stop by my condo? Why didn’t you call and let me know you were here? I was worried. After all, who knows how many car crashes happen each day? What did you do to yourself? Did you get a haircut? You look—different.” When she finally pauses for breath, she turns her attention to me. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your young man?”

“Mom. This is Mr. O’Malley, my—”

I stick out my hand. “Hello, Mrs. Abrams. I’m Matt O’Malley. Bailey’s told me a lot about you.”

Mom tilts her head to the side. She’s doing an appraisal, and I fight the urge to straighten my tie.

“Mr. O’Malley,” she says.