Page 95 of If Not for My Baby
“Sometimes she needs a good fright.”
He’s deflecting—he did it for me and we both know it. “Is that why you hit Grayson? Because you were drunk?”
“I wasn’t drunk,” he says, voice low. And I know it’s true. His eyes are sharp, his speech as melodic and clear as ever. He’s no lightweight.
“You don’t like violence,” I say, pulling onto my street.
“No,” he replies. “I don’t.”
I cut the engine and take a breath. Our conversation was a welcome distraction from the ludicrous choice I’ve made, but now that we’re here my palms are as sweaty as Lionel’s forehead when he’s herding us to sound check. “I think we should stay here for the night, since the paparazzi are likely staking out the bus.”
Tom nods. “Okay. Where’s here?”
One more steadying breath. “This is my house.”
Thirty-One
It’s not like I wascrossing my fingers for the house to be empty, but when she swings the door open, there aren’t many scenarios I could have fathomed that would be worse than this one: My mom stands before us, all leggy five-ten of her, in Daisy Duke shorts, a teensy tank top, and an oversized men’s flannel, blond hair pulled into a ponytail that’s lacking in neither volume nor shine. Worse than her effortless, glamazon appearance, she’s blasting Faith Hill and I can hear voices inside bellowing the chorus and calling for her to get her ass back to the game. Doesn’t seem that bad? Those voices are Mike and his mom, Beth.
My mom’s eyes grow as big as mine, taking in not only my surprise appearance but all of Tom: towering over us both, face beaten like a gladiator, clothes slick with blood.
“Mom,” I attempt. “This is Tom Halloran.”
“I put that one together,” she manages.
“Pleased to meet you, Diane.” His warm tone is at oddswith the broken nose and gruesome shiner on his cheek. “I’ve heard just lovely things.”
“Clementine Bambi Clark.” She puts her hands on her hips. “You show up on my doorstep past midnight, driving someone else’s car, rock star in tow, and blood all over the both of you…Are you trying to make up for all the trouble you kept out of in high school?”
Tom grins at me, his tongue playfully caught between his teeth. “Are ye, Bambi?”
“It’s Bonnie,” I huff. “Can we come in? His nose is broken.”
“I’m sorry, yes, come on in.” I realize, too late, that she might be a little drunk.
“Thanks very much.” Tom nods and ducks inside the low entry of my childhood home. I have landed in a bizzarro alternate universe.
Willow bounds down the stairs, skidding and scrambling toward us, and slams her whole body into my shins. I near double over on top of her but Tom catches me by the biceps. “This is Willow,” I say, but Tom’s already crouched down to meet her, scratching her shaggy ears and under her chin.
“What a beaut,” he says. Then he stands and asks my mom for the restroom.
“Round the corner to your right,” she offers. “First aid kit’s below the sink.”
“I’ll come with you,” I say. “I can help.”
But Tom shakes his head. “I’ll be grand, I’ve bandaged up worse. Thank ye both.”
He disappears around a wall adorned with some very Dianentine porcelain plates and my mom whirls to yank me intoher arms. Despite my age and how haywire the night has gone, it’s all I can to do avoid melting directly into her. She smells like she always has: the same Victoria’s Secret body spray she’s been adding water to for decades and our yummy laundry detergent.
“I missed you way too much,” I tell her. “I’m so glad you’re feeling better.”
“I missed you, baby girl.” She releases me to hold my shoulders and stare into my eyes, serious as a stroke. “But spill right now, young lady. Why’d you hit him?”
“What?” I detangle from her grasp. “Me?”
My mom only shrugs. “It was good handiwork.”
“Diane,” Beth calls. “We’re rolling for you if you don’t stop flirting with the pizza guy and get your booty back here!”
