Page 11 of Broken Pact

“Yes, well,” she stammers like she’s flustered. “Burn the bra, down with the patriarchy and all that. But I can’t lie and say that I want my son to be with a woman who would willingly bed anyone just to get a place on a motorcycle. I want your partner to be supportive and loving, to be with you because she loves you. Not your death trap of a vehicle.”

My mouth parts and for a second, nothing comes out. “Jesus, Ma.” How the fuck she can bundle a sweet sentiment in with her judgement is a fucking gift. It’s that southern in her. Kind of like when she’s telling me shit about people I don’t know and says “bless their hearts.” It’s basically code for fuck you but politely.

She called me last week to give me an update I didn’t ask for about her little run-in with the preacher’s wife, Belinda. Belinda’s been a real thorn in Ma’s side, one-upping her at the ladies brunch they have at the country club. Telling her the wrong dates and times for community charity things they all sit on. But last week, Ma caught Belinda canoodling someone who is definitely not the preacher in the frozen foods aisle at their grocery.

“So, how’s Belinda these days?”

“Don’t you change the subject on me, son. I want to meet this special someone. Is she there now? Let’s video chat! I can’t get a flight out until Wednesday, and I don’t think I can possibly wait that long to meet the woman who’s captivated my son’s heart.”

I shake my head, a little fissure of worry sliding into the back of my neck. How mad is she gonna be once she realizes I’ve been teasing her?

I open my mouth to tell her it’s a joke, but before I can say anything, she’s video calling me. I set my coffee mug down on the side table, pick up Pudding and wrap him around the back of my neck like some kind of old school stole scarf, and answer the phone.

“Darling,” she crows. “Let me meet my . . . Jasper Vincent Devereaux, what in the hell are you wearing?” Her lips twist into a scowl, the coral-colored lipstick pinching in the corners of her mouth.

I lift my shoulder with Pudding’s head on it and angle the camera so she can see his smushy face. “Oh this? This is Pudding.”

Her dark brown brows sink low over her eyes, accusation in her gaze. “Please tell me that’s not who I think it is.”

I rub my index finger over the bridge of his nose and he purrs in response. “Ma, meet my special someone. Pudding, meet Grandma.”

She gasps, her hand flying to her chest in outrage. “Absolutely not. I am not a grandma yet, and certainly not to some cat who you tricked me into thinking was your-your girlfriend.”

I chuckle and Pudding opens one eye, giving me his best impression of a glare. Honestly, he’s pretty good at it. No one is as good as my mom though. That woman can knock me down ten pegs faster with one glance than most people could do in a lifetime.

The apples of my cheeks get warm. “Well, when you put it like that it sounds weird.”

“I guess I’m going to cancel my flight then,” she says with a pout, like she really booked flights while she was on the phone with me. Like this isn’t the same conversation we have almost monthly.

Our conversation lasts a few more minutes before she ends the call, telling me that Kathy is waiting on her at some coffee shop. Her guilt trip lessens by the end, but it never really goes away. It’s one of those things I’ve learned to live with.

And since I have a little bit before I have to get my ass to the garage, I push off the couch in search of one of the other things that guarantees bringing me out of the weird mood my mother’s phone calls put me in.

I set up my puzzle board and dump the contents of the box. Pudding and I have a date with leftover takeout and a new puzzle. Like a couple of fucking gentlemen.

7

CORALINE

“What the hell are those? I thought Ma said you made ice cream sandwiches,” my older brother, Beau, grumbles from across the island. We’re in our parents’ kitchen, getting everything ready for family dinner.

My attention stays on the platter, one hand arranging them so they look like a pastel bouquet of treats and the other darting out to smack the back of my brother’s hand as he reaches toward my little masterpieces.

“Hands off, Beau.”

I catch his grin out of the corner of my eye as he bends down, trying to catch my gaze. “Seriously, Cora. What’s in here?”

I shake my head, enjoying the way the ends of my hair slide across my bare shoulders. “Nope, not-uh. I’m not telling you assholes shit again.”

“Hey, don’t drag me into this,” my oldest brother, Graham, grumbles. “I didn’t say shit about your weird food.”

My gaze snaps up so quickly, I’m honestly surprised I don’t feel my eyeballs rattle. I point my black plastic spatula at Graham first, then swing it toward Beau. “Maybe the two of you should try broadening your horizons, then you’d be less judgmental about trying new things.”

A smarmy sort of grin blooms on Graham’s face. “Hey, I’ve tried lots of new things. Colorful things. Bendy and shapely. And I’m very complimentary to?—”

I lean forward and swat at him with the spatula. “Oh gross. Jesus, Graham. Not everyone wants to hear about your sexual exploits.”

Beau snickers. “Sexual exploits? You’ve been hanging around Mom and her book club friends too much, sis. You’re starting to sound like?—”

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