The F-Word

Nobody’s called me that since I was maybe nine or ten…

Except for Jessica Simms.

I look up and yes, holy crap, there she is. My mother’s friend. No. Not at friend, exactly. A neighbor. Okay, she’s more of an acquaintance.

Fuck.

What she is, is a pain in the ass. She’s the world biggest gossip, so if you figure she’s the worst person Bailey and I could run into this weekend, you just scored one hundred percent, because if you also figur

e I have no intention of mentioning this weekend to anyone, you’re right.

Certainly not to my mom.

And there’s not chance in a million Mom won’t find out about it now.

Which is not good.

See, Mom knows Bailey. She likes her. A lot. She’s always asking after her. I’ve heard her muse over why a girl like Bailey is still single. At one point a couple of years back, Mom even ran this little campaign that involved telling me how terrific Bailey was, how some man would be incredibly lucky to find her, and after a while I’d started to think—hint hint—that maybe I was supposed to be that man. The idea had seemed so ludicrous that I hadn’t even bothered telling my mother there was no way I’d ever be interested in Bailey as a woman.

“Matty? Aren’t you going to say hello?”

I rise to my feet, take a deep breath and, I hope, smile.

“Mrs. Simms. What a surprise.”

She beams at me. “For me too. I had no idea you’d be here.”

“No. Well, it was—it was sort of last minute…”

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

You can almost see the word friend blinking on and off in neon.

“Oh. Sorry. This is Bailey. Bailey Abrams. Bailey, this is my parents’ neighbor. Jessica Simms.”

“Neighbor,” Jessica Simms says with a roll of her eyes. “I’m his mother’s best friend.”

Bailey stands up and holds out her hand. Mrs. Simms takes it. She’s also taking in everything else about Bailey, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Bailey says.

“Oh, believe me, Miss Abrams, it’s a pleasure to meet you!”

“Call me Bailey, please,” Bailey says.

She’s smiling, but she glances at me. I can read the question she’s asking. Is this bad? I try to look at her in a way that says it’s nothing to worry about, but I don’t think I do a very good job of delivering the message.

“Well,” Mrs. Simms says, “why don’t we all sit down?”

I pull out a chair for her and she plops into it. Once we’re all seated, she beams at me.

“So what are you doing here, Matty? Is the groom—my nephew—a business acquaintance of yours?” She looks at Bailey. “Chester owns a big dry cleaning business,” she confides.

That Bailey doesn’t correct her about Elevator Boy’s profession is a hint that she’s as concerned about this situation as I am.

“And who are you related to, my dear? Well, silly me. The bride, of course, because I’d know you if you and the groom were relatives.”

“I’m the bride’s cousin.”