Just Flirt

by Laura Bowers

  Despite my love for badminton, I shake my head. A week ago, I would have reveled in throwing myself right into the middle of that crowd, but isn’t that why people don’t like me, because I always have to be the center of attention, the star? Forget it. From now on, I’m a sidelines-only kind of gal. And no more bikini tops and flippy skirts either. Ever since my fight with Natalie, it’s been nothing but T-shirts and baggy shorts for me.

  At least I don’t have to suck in my stomach now.

  Mom crosses her ankles. “You know, I can’t remember the last time I’ve hung out at the pool. Isn’t it stupid? I have a lovely pool, and I never take time to enjoy it.”

  No, it isn’t stupid. Mom works nonstop, so of course she doesn’t have time for pool lounging or manicures like the New Jersey queen over there. What is stupid is a daughter like me who does nothing but add to her heartache. I wish Mom would go ahead and tell me how I am a disappointment, how she is ashamed of my behavior, anything. Instead, Mom squints at someone swimming crooked laps. “Is that Madeline?”

  I nod. If Natalie was here, she would’ve cracked up over Madeline strolling into the pool area earlier, stretching and twisting in her Speedo swimsuit, swim cap and goggles perched on her head. And knowing Natalie, she would have bribed the Cutsons to cannonball near Madeline’s head after her first lap.

  Huh. Lyle and Tanner are in the shallow end, dogpaddling like a couple of bug-eyed Chihuahuas. Maybe I should bribe them, just to give Mom a well-needed giggle, but it wouldn’t be the same. Nothing feels the same. Not the pool, not badminton, and not the campground that has always given me comfort during the darkest times in my life—after Dad’s death, after Blaine’s breakup, and the letter fiasco.

  Now, I feel like an outsider looking in.

  And besides, when I look in Mom’s direction, she is sound asleep.

  * * *

  The following day, Mom is in our cabin’s bathroom rubbing aloe onto her red nose. “Great, I relax by the pool for once and what happens? I turn into a burnt tomato, as though I don’t have enough wrinkles already.”

  “Mom, stop. You’re beautiful.”

  She turns off the light and then joins me in the kitchen where I’m fixing Hot Pockets for lunch. Mom flops down at the small oak table. “Nice try, honey, but I do have wrinkles. And gray roots, and—” She looks at her nails. “Ugh. And horrendous cuticles.”

  I hate seeing her so defeated and worn-out. Mom runs her finger along a ceramic vase filled with wildflowers. At first, I don’t understand her odd expression, until I remember that was the vase her daisies were delivered in. Maybe now would be a good time to ask who sent them, but what if it opens the door to a conversation I’m not ready to have?

  God, I’m horrible. I’m thinking of my feelings, instead of hers. I’m no better than Meghan’s daughters—the woman from Natalie’s blog who’s divorced and unhappy, whose dates kept getting ambushed because of her selfish children. Mom should date.

  She should spend time with people other than me.

  I throw a Hot Pocket in the microwave and punch start, not caring if the radiation fries my brains from standing too close. Mom absentmindedly straightens the lace table runner. “Um, honey, we need to talk—about the lawsuit. You know the judge has denied the motion of summary judgment that Ivy filed,” she says, her voice strained and tight. “But what I haven’t told you is that Mona’s lawyers gave us a settlement offer for sixty thousand dollars.”

  The room begins to spin. My knees weaken.

  Sixty thousand dollars?

  “Hold on, sweetie, okay?” Mom says. “It’s not all that bad. Ivy worked for Aaron Wyatt and knows his tricks, so she’s fairly certain they’ll settle for much less.”

  I slump down on the chair beside her. “For how much?”

  “Maybe twenty-five thousand dollars.”

  No, no, this isn’t happening. This can’t happen! What have I done? Teenagers are supposed to do stupid stuff that costs their parents money, like dent a fender or lose a cell phone, but twenty-five thousand dollars?

  The microwave beeps.

  Mom reaches for my hands and grips them tight enough for me to feel her wedding band. “Dee, it’s okay. I wasn’t going to tell you until all the details were worked out, but—” She swallows hard. “I’m going to sell four acres to Rex for two hundred fifty thousand dollars. He has generously offered to give me a forty-thousand-dollar usable, nonrefundable deposit, so not only can I pay the settlement, I’ll also be able to afford your college tuition, Dee. I can buy you a car so you won’t have to ride your bike everywhere.”

  No. No!

  I don’t want a car. I don’t want college. Rex is only taking advantage of her after trying to get his hands on that land for years. “No, Mom! Dad hated it when Madeline sold land to Rex eight years ago. He hated it when Rex started building those houses and he hated Rex!”

  Mom’s face pales.

  The microwave beeps again, but I ignore it. “What about the bank, can’t you get a loan? Did you even try, or Ivy—could you borrow the money from her?”

  “Yes, I did try, but after your father died, I had to take a second mortgage to pay off the estate taxes and funeral costs, so they said no, sweetie. I do not want to go farther in debt by borrowing from Ivy, so this is my only option.”

  I jerk to my feet and open the microwave, grabbing the Hot Pocket with my bare hands and then flinging it on the range top when it burns my fingers. I hold them to my mouth and cry, “No, the best option would have been to never have such an idiot of a daughter.”

  “Don’t say that, Dee!”

  “Why not? I’ve ruined everything. I know you’re disappointed in me. Will you just say it, huh? Say how you’re angry with me, anything!”

  Mom stands and pulls me into a tight embrace. “No, Dee, that’s not true. And aren’t you forgetting that I’m the one who didn’t send the insurance payment? Are you angry with me for that? Are you angry with your father for not having enough life insurance when he died?”

  I shake my head. “That was different—”

  “No, it isn’t. It isn’t, Dee!” Mom says. “You made a mistake. A small, innocent mistake, but it’s not your fault Mona Owens is taking advantage of that mistake, do you understand? I need you to understand this, Dee!”

  “But the way I’ve behaved … Superflirt … I know you’re ashamed.”

  Mom holds her palms against my cheeks, forcing me to face her. “Honey, I could never be ashamed of my daughter. If anything—I wish I could be more like you.”

  Like me?

  Mom drops her arms and leans back against the counter, staring at a picture on the windowsill of my father holding up a giant catfish. “You’re so much like your father, Dee. He was the one who would convince me to dance when I’d rather sit out or make me laugh when I got too uptight. You have that same spirit. That’s why it never bothered me to see you talking with boys, because I never wanted to do anything that would break it.”

  She takes a deep breath and then studies the gold band on her finger. “What I wouldn’t do to get some of that spirit. Maybe then I could move on.”

  My own breath catches.

  So it is true—Mom does want to date. She wants to be something other than a mother and a widow and a workaholic. She wants to be a woman again.

  “And I know you’re upset about the land,” Mom continues, “but the campground will still be plenty big enough and we’ll figure out a way to finally beat Chuck Lambert.” She then grabs hold of my baggy shirt. “So, I want my daughter to get out of these hideous clothes and go back to being herself.”

  How can I go back to being the person I once was? No, I’m ashamed of that person. Too much has happened. Too many things have been said. But when Mom looks out the window and says, “By the way, you have some company, honey,” my heart melts as I notice someone walking up the path carrying a box of Skinny Cow Fudge Bars.

  Natalie.

  I throw open the door before she can even
raise her hand to knock.

  “Dee, give me five minutes, please. I’m so sorry for everything, for the blog, for what I said, because you know, you know I love you dearly, for causing the lawsuit, for—”

  I wrap my arms around her.

  “Stop. You had me at Skinny Cow. You had me at Skinny Cow! And, Natalie, you did not cause the lawsuit.”

  Neither did I. Neither did Superflirt.

  And come to think of it, neither did Mona or Sabrina Owens. They are guilty of being complete gold-digging opportunists, sure, but they didn’t cause the lawsuit. Someone else did. Someone who followed me when I told him no. Someone who lied about being lured upstairs.

  That someone is Blaine Walker.

  “Give me your cell,” I demand of Natalie because mine is dead. Again. She digs her phone out of her pocket with a bewildered look. “Okay,” she says. “Normally when friends make up after a big fight, they talk, but sure.”

  I’m tired of talking. I’m tired of beating myself up each and every day. It’s time to put an end to this once and for all.

  Blaine answers on the third ring with a sly “Hey, Torrance.”

  Torrance, as in Sabrina’s friend? Blaine is fooling around with her? Unbelievable. “Try again, dirtbag,” I say through gritted teeth.

  He hesitates. “Dee-Dee?”

  “My name is Dee. And I want to know why you lied because we both know what happened that night.”

  Blaine doesn’t reply, the gears in his head probably spinning for his next defensive play. It doesn’t take long. In one heartbeat, his demeanor shifts from surprise to total control. “Oh, really? Don’t you remember flirting with me, or are you forgetting that part?”

  He’s right. I did flirt with him for those brief moments. Maybe that’s what caused him to follow me and … No, stop it! He’s only doing it again, making me doubt myself and feel as though I should be apologizing instead of him. All it takes is his voice, that confident, con-artist tone he always used to sweet-talk his way out of an argument.

  “Don’t even try it, Blaine. I’m not falling for that trick.”

  “Sure you are, Dee-Dee. You always did. And my dad is having a wine-tasting party this weekend, so he needs my help right now. We’ll talk later.”

  He hangs up. The jerk hangs up. You always did. Well, not anymore. Before I think twice, I quickly send him a text.

  If you want a fight, you got one. Better watch your back, Blaine.

  Superflirt is ready to battle.

  18 Sabrina

  Aaron Noland Wyatt, Esquire, is nothing but a player.

  A swanky, meticulously groomed blond player with tweezed brows, gel-shellacked hair, and a butter-soft tailored suit that certainly didn’t come from anywhere around here. The smell of his overwhelming cologne nearly makes me dry-heave as he escorts Mom and me into his office late Friday afternoon. It’s pompous and pretentious, with bronze fixtures, textured wallpaper, and floor-to-ceiling shelves full of leather-bound law books.

  In other words, Mom is entranced.

  A month ago, I might have been, too, but now …

  “Can I get you ladies anything to drink? Coffee? Tea? Perrier mineral water?” Aaron asks, resting his manicured hand on Mom’s shoulder.

  Mom clasps her hands. “Ooo, Perrier, that sounds lovely, Aaron, thank you! Sabrina, would you like some Perrier?”

  I’m too focused on Aaron’s lingering hand to answer.

  No, no, NO, is he the mystery man Mom has had dinner with every single night for over a week now? Is he the reason she’s dressed like a Sunday school teacher in a prim summer suit with her hair smoothed in a neat bob instead of its usual teased bouffant?

  The thought of having to deal with a different man in our house is uncomfortable enough as it is without it being this man. I bet he wears robes in the morning. I can imagine him at the breakfast table—chest hair poking out of his robe while he enjoys his cappuccinos and crepes. I’d prefer Chuck Lambert over him. Barely.

  “Sabrina, honey, are you okay?” Mom asks.

  I shake off the nasty image and nod. Yes, I will be okay once this settlement meeting is over and life goes back to normal. I’ll spend the rest of summer having fun with Torrance and Bridget, and maybe I’ll try out for cheerleading in August, since my reputation might need a pick-me-up. Blaine and I will patch up the awkwardness between us, and he’ll no longer act so distant, like at Torrance’s Fourth of July party when he skipped the fireworks to play pool or all this week when he spent most of his time on the golf course instead of calling me.

  Aaron admires his reflection in the window that overlooks historic downtown Riverside and straightens his tie. “I’ll have my secretary bring your drinks. Take your time enjoying them,” he says, giving Mom a wink. “Ivy Neville and her party are already in the conference room, but it wouldn’t hurt to let them stew for a while.”

  Okay, it’s official. I’d jump off a cliff if he became my stepfather.

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later, after Mom has enjoyed every last sip of her Perrier—and stated a million times how she has to get a case from Costco—Aaron finally takes us into the conference room where Dee, Jane Barton, and two older women are waiting. I recognize one of them from the campground, but she looks so different now with her cut hair and tailored suit. The other I don’t recognize. Dee’s grandmother, maybe? They do have the same blue eyes. But what about Dee’s father, are her parents divorced like mine?

  “Well, well, Ivy Neville, it’s good to see a former employee,” Aaron says. “How’s retirement treating you?”

  From the way Ivy’s jaw braces, I can tell her relationship with Aaron is not a good one. She forces a smile and reaches out to shake his hand. “Hello, Aaron, always a pleasure, and my retirement is getting longer by the minute considering you’ve had us waiting in here for almost an hour.”

  “My apologies, ladies, I had a conference call,” Aaron says, pulling out a chair for Mom at the head of the table. Liar. “Would anyone care for a beverage? Coffee, tea, tap water?”

  Tap water, huh?

  Ivy grabs her pen. “We’re quite fine, Aaron. What we would like is for this meeting to start sometime today.”

  “Suit yourself,” Aaron says, sitting on the opposite side.

  The other elderly woman raises her hand. “I, for one, would love a refreshment,” she huffs.

  “Well, then, Madeline,” Jane Barton says through clenched teeth. “You should have stayed home and had all the refreshment you wanted.”

  As Aaron leisurely arranges his papers, I slump down on a chair by the window, trying hard not to notice the way Dee and her mother lean toward each other, as though they are holding hands underneath the table. Man. I can’t remember the last time I held my mother’s hand. Even if I tried, she would only think I wanted something from her, and to be honest, I’d feel the same way if she held mine. Our relationship is more like Jane and Madeline’s, with the bickering, bickering, bickering. Is that how Mom and I are going to be for the rest of our lives?

  Yes, we probably will. It’s kind of sad, really.

  So maybe I was right to be jealous of Dee when Blaine and I started going out.

  But not for the reason I thought.

  Aaron Wyatt opens a manila folder, his motions fluid and impassive, as though tearing people’s lives apart is just another day at the office. “Now, Ms. Neville, we have received your client’s settlement offer of twenty thousand dollars.”

  Ivy nods. “That’s right, to be paid immediately.”

  Aaron leans back in his chair, resting his elbows on the armrests with his fingers steepled beneath his chin. His elaborate pinky ring sparkles as he squints and says, “Well, unfortunately, after consulting with my client, your counteroffer is not adequate.”

  I expected this to happen. I knew Mom would do her Mexican bartering for as much as possible. She told me a few days ago that she would accept twenty-five, so come on, Ivy, say twenty-five and let’s just end this!
r />   Ivy crosses her arms, giving me the feeling that her retirement wasn’t all that voluntary, especially when she glares at him and says, “Not adequate, huh. Well, would twenty-two be more adequate?”

  I watch Mom inspect a fingernail, majestic as a queen bee on her throne. She really is enjoying this, her moment of power. She shakes her head, stretching this moment out as long as possible. “No, Ms. Neville, twenty-two is not adequate.”

  Aaron gathers his papers and stuffs them in a folder as though the meeting is over, causing Ivy’s eyes to widen. “Okay,” she says. “We’re prepared to raise the offer to twenty-five thousand.”

  Oh, thank you. The magic number. Mom pretends to contemplate this by pressing a nail against her chin. “Well … no, it’s still inadequate.”

  Mom …

  “Twenty-six thousand?”

  Aaron grins, reminding me of a cat we used to own who would catch a mouse and bat it back and forth between its paws before killing it. “Actually, Ivy, our client has decided that no settlement offer will be adequate.”

  Some of the color drains from Ivy’s face. “Meaning?”

  Mom leans forward, placing her forearms on the table and clasping her hands. “Meaning I am proceeding to trial for the full two million.”

  The room begins to spin.

  Someone gasps.

  I shoot out of my chair, sending it crashing against the wall behind me. “Mom—you promised we were going to settle! You said this was all going to be over!”

  “Not now, Sabrina,” Mom whispers.

  No, this is not happening.

  It feels as though my entire world has been ripped out from underneath me, just like when Dad came into my room on that night so long ago and told me he was leaving to be with Belinda. I sink into my chair, unable to comprehend how Mom can just sit there calmly and not be affected by the sheer terror on Jane Barton’s face. And Madeline’s.

  And especially Dee’s.

  “What’s going on, Aaron,” Ivy barks. “You arranged this settlement meeting yesterday. What could possibly have changed since then?”