Wish - Page 37

“I’ve moved on from Greg,” I say, “and I’m here because I needed to clear my head.”

“Must be pretty muddy in there if you flew all this way for that.”

A long awkward moment fills the air, and I feel the power of the mom-eyes taking hold. “Okay. Fine. I met a man, and, well, he’s different. I mean really different.”

“I don’t like him already.” She pushes back in her chair and steeples her hands together, elbows planted on the blond wood table. Most of her furniture is the same color throughout the house. She’s into matching everything and zero clutter or tchotchkes—a result of growing up with my grandma, whose home looked like a big tchotchke playground. Impossible to dust, but so much fun to look at.

“He’s different in a good way,” I try to explain. “He’s kind of a philanthropist.”

“That’s a step up from lying, cheating asswipe.”

“Mom.”

“Sorry. I’ll stop talking about Greg.” She makes a little circular motion with her finger. “Go on.”

“Thank you. It’s just that I met this man under some unusual circumstances and—”

“Oh, you mean the genie guy.”

How does she know? I give her a look.

“What?” She shrugs. “Nolan may have mentioned something to his mother, and she may have mentioned something to me when I bumped into her at the store.”

Moose is such a gossip queen! “All right, so you know some of the story.”

“Did that man really give you five million dollars, sweetie? Because I told Gloria that couldn’t possibly be right. You hate accepting charity.”

Gloria is Olivia and Moose’s mom. “Yes, but—”

Her mouth falls open. “Did he demand sex? Because he’d better not. I’ll call the FBI.”

“The FBI?” What would they do?

“Well,” she huffs, “I’m sure there’s a hotline for worried mothers to report perverts—there’s a hotline for everything. Even for reporting counterfeit Beanie Babies.”

“I wasn’t aware that was a problem.” Who collects those anymore?

“Now you know.” She gives me one of her pious looks—a warning not to mess with her because she knows all, sees all.

“Thank you. But back to your question, the answer is no. He didn’t demand sex.” Though I wish he would. He’s more than just easy on the eyes. Looking at him is like bathing in frosting. Eye frosting? Brain frosting? Crap. I don’t know. I just want to pet him while he’s naked and lick a few spots. “He has a random system of choosing people for his generosity, and it’s purely a one-way transaction.”

“You mean the bottle thing.”

I slap the table with one hand. “Is there anything you don’t know about my life, Mom?”

“I can’t help it if Olivia and Nolan like to talk to their mother. You might consider trying it sometime, young lady.”

Oh. Don’t you worry. From now on, I will. Every detail of Nolan’s and Olivia’s lives will be fed straight to my mom. Let’s see how they like it.

“The thing is,” I say, “when I met the guy, I just felt this—I dunno. Connection. I mean, he’s insanely good looking, but it wasn’t that. There was something about him.”

“You always were a sucker for the strays.”

I did adopt a lot of street cats. When I was twelve, I brought home a litter I found in a box on the side of the road while walking home from school. After that, there was no stopping me. It drove her crazy. Still, “He’s not a cat.”

“No, but you like taking care of people and animals and broken things. You love putting them back together. You always have.”

Whoa. I let that sink in. Is my mom onto something? I start thinking about all the times I brought home animals—injured birds, skinny cats, abandoned dogs. I would nurse them back to health, put up flyers, or call their owners. Whatever was needed.

As for people, I guess I always was the designated shoulder to cry on in school. Vi was my best friend, but there was our friend group and Moose’s friends, too, all of us about the same age. I was the one who gave out the hugs and listened to their problems. Actually, it was more than that. If one of my girlfriends liked my sweater, I’d give it to her, anything to make my friends happy. It used to drive my mom bonkers because it wasn’t like she could afford to constantly buy me clothes. It got to a point where she stopped buying me new things and took me to Goodwill for everything. I think she thought it would teach me a lesson—no new clothes for you, young lady!—but nope. Just the opposite. I knew if we shopped there, I could talk her into buying me knickknacks. I’d take old picture frames, wooden toys, you name it, and make them into something new. After a while, my mom started threatening to only take me shopping at the clearance section at the local Walmart, because my crafting also drove her crazy.

Tags: Mimi Jean Pamfiloff Romance
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