Page 27 of Expecting an Argument
I loosened the tension in my jaw and walked away before I could wonder if getting rid of that damn corvette actually made me a happy man.
Santa Claus—my old nemesis.
In any other context, I had no qualms with the jolly old elf. But the seven-foot-tall plastic statue with the faded red suit that stood in Aunt Liz’s backyard? Never had I wanted to burn a beloved holiday icon in effigy so badly.
“Twenty-seven years old and you’re still terrified of that thing,” Mom said from across the table.
I turned my head from the Santa statue to look at my mother. “Don’t confuse terror for sustained contempt.”
The wrappers and grease-stained paper bags from our lunch still rested on the iron patio table between us. The outdoor thermostat painted with cardinals read that it was 48 degrees out. The burgers were soggy and grease on the fries had cooled before we could even eat them, but lunch indoors wasn’t an option for Mom.
With a flick of her lighter, Mom lit her second cigarette. Sheinhaled and blew a curl of smoke out into the gray December sky. Her phone lit up with an email notification, but she quickly flipped it face-down before I could see who had contacted her.
Whatever. It was probably a random promotional email from one of the luxury stores she liked to shop at, anyway.
Mom flicked her blue eyes to the Santa statue and her filler-stuffed lips stretched into a smile. “You really need to learn to let things go, baby.”
My eyes narrowed. Hadshebeen trapped in the snow beneath that abomination of a Christmas decoration when she was four, she might understand. Though my real grudge was with Uncle Rick, who kept the statue up past Easter and Fourth of July solely because I was scared of it. The damn thing never went into storage because Uncle Rick thought tormenting the only child in the family was the funniest shit in the world.
And since that asshole was finally dead, the tacky giant Santa would be a permanent sentinel in Aunt Liz’s brown, overgrown backyard. Grief was an odd animal.
Mom leaned back in her patio chair, her cigarette trapped between her ballerina pink nails.
“All right,” she sighed. “I’ve got a belly full of grease and lungs full of nicotine. Let’s talk.”
I rubbed the back of my neck and my stomach twisted, as if Santa’s cracked-paint gaze had suddenly turned judgmental. “Well, the timeline adds up, so I’m fairly certain they’re mine.”
“Fairlycertain?”
My eyes narrowed. “You were the one who warned me to never get DNA tested—that’s the only way to be sure.”
“But yousawthem?” she stressed. “This isn’t just a repeat of what Gold Digger did?”
I shifted in my chair and my eyes dropped to my lap. “Don’t call Katie that.”
“She broke my baby’s heart, I’ll call her whatever I want.”Mom took another drag of her cigarette. “Although there’s two gold diggers now. I should call the old one GD1 and this one GD2…”
“Mom, come on,” I groaned. “This is serious.”
Her fingers clutching her cigarette made her right hand look like a smoking pistol as she pointed at me. “Iamserious. You called me last night about your newproblemand now you’re shocked that I have concerns?”
I folded my arms. “Olivia Adams is many things, but she’s not a gold digger. She does wear those shoes you hate, though.”
Mom grimaced. “The ones that have ‘new money red’ paint slathered on the sole?”
“The very same.”
Mom flicked ash off her cigarette and sighed. “To tell you the truth, I just about fainted when you told me you got someone pregnant, but I’m not surprised it was her. You were obsessed with her in high school.”
I wouldn’t have been more shocked if Mom had slapped me across the face with a large mouth bass. Obsessed withOlivia?
“Did you and Aunt Liz hit the sauce this morning?” I asked. “I was never obsessed with Olivia!”
She gave me a look that I still recognized under all the plastic surgery and dropped her voice to imitate mine.“I hate Olivia Adams so much. Why did Olivia Adams have to join the debate team? Olivia Adams is so fake. I got grouped with Olivia Adams for a project and I want to jump off a bridge. Olivia Adams, Olivia Adams, Olivia Adams.”
A vein throbbed in my temple. “What you’re describing is annoyance, not obsession!”
“Regardless…” She waved her hand, twisting the trail of smoke from the end of her cigarette. “We are the last Fontaines at a crossroads of the family legacy, so you have to be honest with me.”
