Page 97 of Santa Has a Six-Pack
“Matt Barbera,” my fake boyfriend says as he shakes my dad’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Whitaker.”
“Please. Call me Bob.”
“Marjorie!” My mother calls out to a woman with a martini in hand. She waves her to come closer. “My daughter Penny is here. Come chat!”
The woman—Marjorie, I suppose—sashays over to us as she takes a long sip of her drink. “Hello, Penny. I’ve heard so much about you.”
She has?
“You have?” I squeak.
“Of course she has,” my mother says, a warning look in her eyes. “I’m very proud of both of my daughters.”
“You are?” Banks appears with my nephew Max in tow, earning her own glare from our mother.
I ruffle Max’s hair.
“Yes, of course!” My mother giggles awkwardly, smiling too widely at her friend.
“Alright, goobers,” Banks says to her kids, who are both yawning and bleary-eyed now. “Let’s get you two up to bed.”
How Banks manages overnight visits in this house is beyond me. I’ve been here less than an hour, and my skin is literally itching with my desire to go.
“Say good night to Grammy and Grandpa,” Banks coaches Maya and Max. They do, and are met with stilted head pats from my parents. No hugs or kisses. Even for the kids. Banks leans close and whispers in my ear, “Will you still be here in thirty minutes?”
“Hard to say,” I whisper back. “But doubtful.”
“Well, if you’re not… thank you for coming. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“And Matt?” Banks says before she goes.
“Yeah?”
“I hope to see more of you soon. I think you’re good for this one.” She nods sweetly toward me.
Matt runs a hand down my hair. “She’s good for me too.”
We lock eyes for a moment, and everything in me agrees with him.
We are good for each other.
After Banks disappears up the stairs with the kids, my mother clears her throat. It seems we weren’t giving her friend the undivided attention she thinks she deserves.
My father, however, was.
As quickly as I see his hand brush against Marjorie’s ass, it’s gone and planted again on my mother’s shoulder like the tiny infidelity never happened.
But I know better.
And I’m not surprised.
Because this is what he does.
And every single time, she takes him back.
“Marjorie is on the board of ABT,” my mother boasts, either unaware of his wandering hands or ignoring them as usual.
