Page 33 of Sex. Love. Marriage.
Her eyes widen in surprise. “You did? Which one? I watched the one where she let one guy in her ass and the other in the vajayjay, and I keep thinking to myself, whoa, she’s stretched.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “I don’t remember the name, but it wasn’t that one. Then Noah came in and caught me and I panicked and threw the iPad at the wall and broke it.”
“Holy shit.” She slaps her hands down on the counter. “Tell meeverything. In. Detail.”
“Bonner gave him Viagra.” And I leave the sentence there, just to see what Kate’s reaction will be. You never know with her.
With a smirk, she raises an eyebrow. “Whaaaat?”
I tell her everything leading up to the shower and then the kitchen and then seeing Mara’s pediatrician. I tell her all of it because I need to. I need to get it off my chest and telling Journal didn’t do anything this morning so… I don’t know why but I confide in Kate.
“Who’s Mara?” she asks, her voice timid like maybe she knew all along.
“Our daughter who passed away last year.” I can’t even bear to say how or what happened, just that she died.
Everyone takes the news differently when you tell them you lost a child. You see the emotions on their face. Each one. At first they’re shocked, then curious as to what happened, then finally, when they empathize with you and put themselves in your position, they get that small flicker of the devastation you must have experienced, and they’re sad for you.
I don’t want sympathy. I don’t want the “I’m so sorry” or the “if there’s anything I can do for you.” I want my fucking daughter back is what I want.
Kate reaches for my hand and then yanks me into a tight hug. “I know I don’t have tits like Ashlynn, but they’re gonna have to do.”
And I let my friend hold me because my husband won’t, or can’t. She doesn’t ask how she died or any other details. I don’t want to share outside the fact that she died, and I appreciate that.
After I cry for close to twenty minutes on Kate’s nonexistent tits, she draws back and brushes away her own tears. “I’m an all-skate crier. If someone is crying, I cry.”
Laughing, I reach for a paper towel to wipe the snot from my nose. “It’s okay. Almost everyone cries or gets teary-eyed when you tell them your kid died.”
Kate sighs but doesn’t say anything until she pats my shoulder. “By the way, you’re helping me with my kids’ birthday party this weekend.”
I shake my head. It’s just like her to change the subject and get me laughing instead of crying. I needed it though. More than I knew. “I hate birthday parties,” I admit, knowing Kate’s not going to judge me for being that mom. “I always let Noah’s mom plan them for the kids.”
“Girl, me too. Which is why I need you to keep me from killing Jason. He’s entirely too peppy for me. He’s all excited that the boys are turning eleven and doing a pirate party.”
Part of me wants to tell Kate she should be excited too because Mara, she’ll never turn eleven. I’ll never get to plan that party for her, and even though I hate planning parties, I’d give anything to plan hers.
And then I’m crying again.
Kate gets up from the counter and searches through my cupboard until she finds a bottle of Bailey’s, then dumps a shot in my coffee.
“Kate, I can’t drink. I have to pick the kids up in a few hours.”
She hushes me with a flick of her wrist. “It’s one shot. It’s not like I’m dumping a bottle in here. And no one would judge you if you did.”
“Yes, they would. Those PTA moms who scolded me over the drop-off line the other day, they’d judge me.”
She laughs. “You’re right, they would. But I won’t.”
She’s absolutely right. She won’t, and Kate is exactly what I need at the moment. A friend who’s not going to judge or try to sympathize with me. She just listens.
(Why do I let him talk me into this bullshit?)
“I HAVE SOMETHINGto show you.”
I don’t like those words. Especially coming from Bonner. I don’t say anything. But I did follow him to the garage like I know I shouldn’t because damn it, I’m curious about what he wants to show me.
And then he pulls out an iPad with a smirk and sets it on the bar in his garage. I take a seat, as does Bonner, and then he pushes Play.
I groan and push my hand through my hair. “Are you fuckin’ serious?”
