Page 27 of The Kiss Principle

“Oh my God,” she groaned. “I hate that phrase so much.”

That led us, somehow to Augustus, and before long I was talking about the consulting work he did, digital marketing, all the obstacles he’d overcome, and the fact that he was, despite every sign to the contrary, apparently going to become a fully functioning adult at some point in the near future, instead of the human cum-bucket I thought he’d been destined for.

I left that last part out—believe it or not, I did manage to put my filter back into place. Well, mostly. And Bea, to her credit, rolled with it. In hindsight, I should have realized that any friend of Lou’s must have been able to hold up pretty well to that woman’s rent-a-fuck caliber of verbal battery; anything I dished out would be child’s play in comparison.

The conversation was easy, and as I relaxed, I found myself having fun. She was pretty, although I wouldn’t have said she was my type. My type ran more to—dark eyes, I thought, maybe. Dark hair. With some texture. Salt and wind and sun. Not that I had a type, these days. You had to go on more than one date a year, I was pretty sure, to be able to say you had a type.

The food came, and even though my prediction had been right—one reimagined meatball, sir, lightly dusted with nutritional yeast, in a tomato-free chutney—I was surprised to find I was having a good time.

That, of course, was when my phone started to go off. I ignored it the first time. The second time I reached to silence it, I checked the screen. It was Mom. I let it go to voicemail, and she called again.

“If you need to take that…” Bea said.

I hesitated. Say no, a voice told me. Turn your phone off and pay attention to this intelligent, attractive, interesting woman who did not run for the hills when you said you’d seen micropenises bigger than the breadsticks they served in this place.

“Fernando, if it’s important, you can answer. In fact, this is the perfect chance for me to run to the restroom.”

“Thank you.”

She waved the words away.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “My mom. She’s called four times now.”

“Take the call,” she said as she set her napkin aside. “I promise it’s fine.”

As soon as Bea was a safe distance away, I accepted the call and whispered furiously, “What the fuck is such a big fucking emergency that I can’t have one night to myself?” And then it was like a trapdoor had opened inside my head. “Is Igz okay?”

“She is not okay!” Mom’s voice was high and thready. “She is ruining my evening! She won’t let the girls hold her, and she’s been fussing nonstop.”

“I told you I didn’t want them—”

“And do you know how embarrassing it is to be turned away at the door? I mean, my God, Fernando, when did they stop letting you take a baby into a bar? This is still America, isn’t it?”

“You took her to a bar?”

“Not inside because they wouldn’t let—”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

My volume slipped on that one, and the question was an explosion. Conversations around me dimmed, and other diners turned looks of cow-eyed curiosity on me, still sucking down their fucking polenta foam made with air imported from the Mendocino Farm.

“She ruined my night out,” Mom said. “And Zé won’t pick up his phone, and I don’t think that’s right, do you? I mean, he’s living here, isn’t he? Shouldn’t he be available to help every once in a while?”

“What are you—” I managed to rein my voice in. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“They’re at the Blackbird, Fernando. You know that’s my favorite.”

“Let me get this straight: after you promised to watch Igz tonight—promised, Mom—so that I could go on a date, now you’re calling me, telling me how a baby ruined your chance to drink vodka tonics with your stupid friends at that stupid bar, and I’m going to guess that, since Zé is enjoying his night off, you want me to come home and watch her.”

The question flashed through my mind even as I said it: enjoying his night how? A date? Did guys his age go on dates? Or maybe a hookup? Did he have Grindr or Prowler or any of those apps? Or maybe, I thought as reason reasserted itself, it wasn’t any of my business. For all you know, he’s getting the oil changed in his car, jackass. Sure, I thought. All that pumping and thrusting and lube. And what the fuck right did he have to go off and fuck around when—

When what? When it was his night, and he was free to do whatever he wanted? With whomever he wanted?

Mom, of course, picked up on that opening right away. “Oh, would you, darling? That would be wonderful. Thank you.”

“No, I surely fucking will not. I’m on a date, Mom. I’m allowed to have a night to myself. And you promised—”

In the background, Igz was crying.

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