Not My Match (The Game Changers 2)

She laughs just as my phone buzzes. I groan at the caller, Mama, and press straight to voice mail as I stand up. “Maybe next time. A daughter’s duty calls.”

Setting the dog down at her feet, I study her face. “I didn’t ask about your day. How was it?”

She twirls her bejeweled hands. “Fuse box in the basement is on the fritz. Something electrical. Garbage truck never showed. Pookie crapped in my kitten heels. The usual.” She wets her blunt by pinching it, then sticks it back behind her ear as she ambles behind me to the wide front door.

“Nothing exciting, huh?”

She grimaces. “If you’re asking if I talked to Mr. Brooks, I did not. His bald head and wrinkled lips can kiss my petunia.”

I throw my arm around her. Mr. Brooks was her long-term boyfriend until they broke it off around the same time Preston and I ended. We’ve commiserated together ever since.

“Sorry.”

“Fun to ride but not worth the trouble,” she adds, giving me a squeeze.

“We’re quite the pair, you and me,” I say as she walks inside with me, and I help her up the last few steps.

“Didn’t bring my cane,” she mutters as we approach the elevator—a small one, rather dinky and dark, but it gets the job done. It’s on the basement level, so I push the button for it to come up. The doors slide open.

“You should just get the knee replacement,” I tell her, taking her elbow. “You know I’ll help you with the recovery.”

She waves me off as she puts her foot at the door to keep it from shutting. “Sushi tomorrow night?”

I bob my head. “It’s on. Spider roll and fried wontons. Your place.”

She points a finger at the door off the foyer on the first floor. “Let’s invite the new resident. His name is”—she leans in to whisper—“John Wilcox. Moved in today. Handsome fellow in his fifties.”

I see that glint in her eyes. She’s already tried setting me up with the grocer, the baker, and the boy who throws the Sunday paper. None worked out.

“He’s all yours. Please.”

She mulls it over. “He has a cat. I’m allergic.”

“Take a Benadryl.”

She taps her chin. “Sushi night is historically girls’ night.”

“Rules are made to be broken!” I toss in.

She sends me a droll smirk. “Live what you preach, Giselle.”

“Ask him. Tomorrow night is going to be lit,” I chirp, waving good night as she pushes the button for the second floor, letting the door slide shut. I take the stairwell up to my place on the third level.

I don’t have any whiskey, but I’m midsip on a glass of wine when Mama calls back around nine.

“Mama!” I say brightly. “Missed you earlier, but I had to get situated.”

“Was he employed?” No hello, how are you.

“He was a rodeo star, belt buckle and all.” Then: “I thought I’d at least have until tomorrow before Topher told you about my date.” Topher and Mama had some unsure moments when he lived with my sister—not right to cohabitate with a man, she insisted—but now that Elena’s married to Jack, Mama is satisfied and treats Topher like one of her own. Not sure that’s a good thing.

“Topher can’t keep a secret. If he wasn’t gay, I’d tell you to marry him. He came by for some Sun Drops at the Cut ’N’ Curl while I was doing some late-night cleaning.”

“He’s in trouble for running straight to you.” I shall plot my revenge.

We chitchat for the next few minutes, until she drops her bomb. “Your birthday is Sunday. I get home from church at noon, so be here by one, dear.”

I set down my glass and lean in, gripping the phone. Something about her voice . . . “I don’t want anything fancy, Mama. Just you and me and Aunt Clara and Topher.” I pick at the threads on my blue couch. “Elena and Jack won’t be back. Maybe we should wait—”

“We will celebrate on the actual day.”

I groan at the determination in her voice. She’s a bulldog. “Mama, let’s wait.”

There’s a beat of silence, and I picture her in her stately brick house in Daisy. She’s probably already wearing her blue nightgown, the one that goes all the way to her feet with lace at the hem. She’s curled up in her recliner watching Dateline, hair perfectly coiffed, nails tapping a copy of People magazine in her lap. A warm cup of peppermint tea sits next to her.

“Mama?”

“I don’t like the ghosts in your eyes, dear. Preston . . .”

Sick of his name and annoyed, I hold the phone at arm’s length for the next ten seconds. Sometimes I think she was more devastated than I was when we broke up. She’d been hesitant at first since he’d previously dated Elena, but he’s a lawyer, lives in Daisy, and has money. He checked all her boxes, and she couldn’t resist him. She planned our wedding, made an album with her favorite color scheme (pink and more pink), and selected flowers, venue, musicians . . .