Page 86 of 10 Days to Ruin

I shake my head, unable to suppress my laughter. The fact that Belle had me so early means all the memes of my childhood were also the memes of her late twenties to mid-thirties. Everything that’s corny for me is still totally hip for her—including the word “hip.”

“You’re a very young soul, Mama.”

“By all means, keep complimenting me. But it won’t get you out of talking about your boyfriend. Or ‘hunk,’ as you so eloquently put it.”

“You’rethe one who called him that.”

“I was fishing, dear. And of course you’d land a hunk—you’re my daughter.” Her eyes dart to the lake. “Oh! Look! There’s Quendall!”

We find a bench to sit on while we duck-watch. I’d never say it out loud, but I’ve missed this. Even though it hasn’t really been that long. But I guess I’m still making up for lost time.

It’s funny to see her like this, though: free and proud and utterly unfazed by how cruel life has been to her. A marriage ruined, one daughter gone, another in quasi-hiding—none of it has dimmed Belle Ward’s shine. She’s my hero, honestly.

“Wow. Look at her go,” I remark.

“Right? Quortney can’t swim for shit, but Quendall’s a natural.”

I scour the reeds, looking for the rest of the family. “Where’s Quanye?”

“Who knows? Haven’t seen him since the last time we were here together.”

“Probably on tour, then.”

“Probably.” She turns her gaze back to me. “God, you really do look incredible. It’s like you’re glowing.”

“I’m pregnant, actually.”

She gives me a panicked look over before she thwacks my knee. “Oh, shut up. I almost believed you.”

Then her eyes turn serious. “So, this hunk. Would he be this fake baby’s daddy? Am I going to have to beat him up?”

“Mom!”

“It was just a question. Don’t get all defensive.” She squints at me. “You won’t tell me anything voluntarily. Mama Bear’s got no choice but to pull out her claws.”

I roll my eyes. “There’s nothing to spill. We’re just… seeing where it goes.” Which is a hell of a euphemism forI’m trying to ditch him but he’s trying to marry me and oh, by the way, it’s all your ex-husband’s fault.

But I’m a journalist. I was taught to simplify.

“Is that code for ‘fuck buddies’?”

I spit my ice cream through my nose. “Oh my God, Mom!”

“What? It’s a fair question.” She takes another bite of her cone. “Courtship rituals change with every generation. It’s perfectly normal.”

I sigh, slumping hard against the bench. “We’re not ‘fuck buddies.’ We’re more like…” I bury my face in my hands. “Why am I even telling you this?”

“Because I’m your mom and I’m awesome. Now, don’t stop. You’re more like…?”

I groan. This is all kinds of embarrassing. It’s like I’m suddenly fourteen again and enduring the third degree about Nate from gym class. “We’re just… circling.”

“‘Circling,’” she repeats.

“Yeah. Like, you know, vultures or something.”

“That’s awfully unromantic.”

“You know what I mean.”

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