Page 70 of Playing Games

Blake

Bonnie Boden looks exactly how I’d expect my mother to look after taking a last-minute trip to NYC to spend the day shopping and have lunch with me. Her hands are full of bags from various luxury stores, and her skin is tanned in the way you only get if you live in Southern California.

“Blake!” she greets with a huge smile when she spots me in the back of the fancy French restaurant she secured a reservation for yesterday when she was busy making her big New York plans. “Oh, it’s so good to see you, darling,” she says when she reaches the table, and I stand up like the gentleman she and my dad raised to take the numerous bags from her hands. “I swear, I don’t know how you tolerate this city on a daily basis.”

I nearly laugh. She’s so far removed from thedaily tolerationmost New Yorkers deal with it isn’t even funny. She has a driver, a steady stream of money, and access to reservations atMaison Fleur, the kind of French restaurant where the lighting is soft, the linens are pristine, and every waiter wears a pressed black suit. It’s intimate without trying too hard—exactly the kind of place my mom loves.

Her light-brown hair is perfectly styled, not a strand out of place, and her cream pantsuit is unwrinkled. She adjusts her oversized sunglasses, and her blue eyes are bright-eyed in a way that says she probably slept like first-class royalty on her red-eye flight here.

Hermès, Louis Vuitton, Cartier, the logos read like a who’s who of luxury brands as I set the bags under our table’s unoccupied side.

“How are you?” she says, leaning forward to press two European-style kisses to my cheeks.

“I’m good, Mom.” I pull out her chair for her to sit down and don’t even bother asking her how she’s doing because I know it will lead to a lengthy rant about whatever inconveniences she’s faced in the past eight hours.

Once she’s comfortable in her seat, I sit back down in mine across the table. A menu is already in her hands, and it’s not long before she’s gesturing for a server to come over to our table.

I give him my order—a steak and vegetable combo—and my mom goes into her usual diatribe of asking him a hundred questions about the menu.

I love my mom. Really, I do. But I also know she’s an acquired taste for most people. She’s bossy and particular and direct. Not to mention, she was born and raised with a silver spoon in her mouth, paralegaling in her early days as a gateway to marrying a lawyer.

And land one, she did.

Both of my parents are great in their own right, even if they’re a little too much when they’re together. I’ve always had a good, close relationship with my mom, and when it comes to advice—whether about friends or girlfriends—she’s never steered me wrong.

“What is the white sauce on the escargot made out of?” she asks the server, and he doesn’t hesitate to answer her question.

“Butter, cream, garlic, parsley, and thyme,” he answers. “It’s a very nice accompaniment to the dish.”

“Okay.” My mom nods and hands him her menu. “I’ll take that. And a glass of your best Chardonnay, please.”

The server heads off toward the kitchen, and my mom moves all her attention back to me.

“Let me guess,” she says with a secret smile as she glances down at my attire of a Dragons Football T-shirt and jeans—clearly out of place in this fancy French scene. “You had football this morning.”

“That’s pretty much the story of my life.” I smirk. “But I did manage a shower before I headed here.”

“Well, I certainly appreciate that, Blake.” She grins.

“Didn’t want to scare any of the clientele in this swanky place.”

She rolls her eyes. “If I’m going to do lunch in New York, Blake, I’m going to eat good food.”

“And I gave you a great pizza recommendation.”

“Pizza?” Her laugh is of the hoity-toity variety. “You know me better than that, darling.”

It’s my turn to laugh. “I guess I should just be thankful you chose a restaurant close to campus.”

“Exactly,” she says as the server sets down her glass of wine in front of her. She takes a sip, and my phone vibrates inside the pocket of my jeans. I pull it out to find a text message from the one girl I haven’t stopped thinking about since I left her apartment this morning.The one girl you technically never stop thinking about.

Lexi: I just saw you this morning, and I have two mandatory meetings with my professors today. I have to make a little time in my schedule for things other than you right now and get back to you when I can.

Her response is in relation to the text I sent her five minutes after I walked out of her apartment door:When can I see you again?

Me: You’re not going to sleep at the lab, though…we could plan on that.

Lexi: I thought standard booty calls came in after 2 a.m. It’s not even three in the afternoon.

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