Page 84 of If Our Hearts Collide

Maybe Collins is being tortured by his own misery. I mean, why would he get the type of tattoo he did without it having some sort of symbolic meaning at the very least?

Claire makes a disgusted face at her best friend, drawing my attention back to Angie’s sweet declaration. “Barf. Vomit. Ugh.”

“Why? Just why?” Angie asks, as we all laugh.

“Love sounds good on paper,” Claire explains, glancing at her phone. “But this man of mine”—she turns to Momma—“no offense, Donna, but he is going to send me straight to someisland where all they serve is chocolate pudding and is free of any person sporting a dick.”

“Being offended is a choice I never choose,” Momma says nonchalantly.

Turning to Claire, I ask, “Why? What’s going on?”

“Apparently Nic and Graham have taken it upon themselves to buy the ten top-rated video baby monitors on the market.” She holds up her phone to show us a picture of the devices arranged on the floor. “From around the world, mind you. And they are now trying to hack into each of them to see which has the most superior firewall.”

“Can you say nerds?” Momma asks, making us burst out into laughter.

Claire points to the corner of the photo where there is something lying on the floor. “See the baby doll? That man is obsessed. One night I caught him practice burping the thing.”

“That’s cute though,” I croon, holding my hands over my heart.

“Then the head fell off.”

Momma shakes her head, leaning back in her chair. “I thought for sure I raised more well-adjusted men. Those two are going to drive me to that island with you, Claire. But I’ll need all the dicks. Big ones. Like an entire bag of them.”

“Momma!” I scoff. And she manages to look innocent. I just can’t with her.

“Come on, Penny,” Claire pouts. “You’ll come to the island too?”

“Count me in,” I add without hesitation. “I could get used to daily doses of chocolate pudding.”

“Good. But I’m serving it with pickles.”

“That’s nasty, Claire,” Angie says, making a face. “And I didn’t even think you like pickles.”

“They aren’t for me.” She pats her stomach. “They are for the uterus inhabitant.”

It feels good to laugh, to cry from laughing, and to just…

Be myself.

Asking Momma to help out with interior design work is basically like taking a kid to a candy store. She’s on a high, walking around the store, feeling up fabric and looking at us girls for an appropriate reaction—which none of us must give her because she scrunches up her nose and then sighs in true Donna-drama fashion.

“Just pick something, Momma,” I say with as much calmness as I can fake. “Everything looks amazing in here.” And it does. I’m having choice paralysis basically.

“I can’t justpick something, Pen. This is art.”

I turn to Claire and Angie. “Well, I must suck at art.”

“Us too,” Angie laughs. “I would have settled on Dave’s Discount Furniture but was afraid to suggest that.”

We are camped out on the display living room set, surrounded by vases of fake flowers, French macarons in glass bowls, and throw pillows fit for a queen.

“How much for the macarons?” Claire asks, her tone serious.

“I think they are just for show,” I answer.

“So, I can eat them?”

“If you like plastic,” Angie giggles. “They are fake.”

---