I looked at her, thinking that she was kind of brilliant. “Something else,” I said. “But I might need something stronger than tea.”
Bonnie smiled, turned off the stove, and poured us both a glass of clear liquor, neat.
“What’s this?” I said, swirling it in my glass.
“Gin,” she said. “It’s all I have.”
I nodded, then took the glass and followed her to her back porch, where we sat on wicker chairs and gazed up in the tree at my handiwork. As we sipped, I told her the whole story. Everything. Ending with Nina and Finch’s visit, and Finch asking for my permission to ask Lyla out.
Bonnie whistled and shook her head. “What did you tell him? Wait. Let me guess. Over your dead body?”
“Not exactly, actually.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. Why so surprised? I thought you believed in forgiveness?” I said. “Letting go of bitterness and all that stuff?”
“I do,” she said. “But you don’t.”
“Good point,” I said. “But I’m trying to set a better example. I’d rather Lyla be like you than me.”
Bonnie smiled.
“So. I’m hoping she says no on her own. That she accepts his apology but still wants nothing to do with him. I am hoping this has taught her a few things about self-respect.”
Bonnie nodded, then squinted up at the sky. The late afternoon sun highlighted all her lines and wrinkles, making her look older than I thought of her as. Then again, she probably was in her early seventies by now, which somehow seemed so much older than one’s late sixties. At forty-seven, I thought about how fast I would get there, too. I was almost fifty, for fuck’s sake. How had that happened?
“What if she says yes? What if she ends up really liking him?” she asked tentatively, reaching down to stroke one of her two black cats, who was just moseying by.
“I guess I’d cross that bridge,” I said. “With your help.”
“Do you think he likes her? Or is he…?” She struggled to find the right slang.
“Playing her?”
Bonnie nodded. “Yeah. That.”
“I can’t tell,” I said. “Maybe both?…I know I’m biased, but Lyla really is a special girl.”
Bonnie squinted harder, deep in thought. “Well. What could it really hurt if they did go out?”
“She could get her heart broken,” I said.
“God forbid she take that risk,” she quipped, clearly making a separate point.
“It’s not the same thing,” I said, knowing she was about to get on her soapbox about my personal life. “I don’t have time for that stuff—”
“Nonsense,” she said. “People make time for what matters to them.”
“Not interested,” I said. “I’ve seen what’s out there. No, thanks.”
“If only Nina were single, huh,” she said breezily, almost under her breath.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I said, though I knew exactly what it meant.
“I think you like her.”
“I do like her,” I said, playing it cool.
“Like her, like her.”
I rolled my eyes, trying to remember exactly what I’d just said about Nina. That she was attractive? That she was much nicer than her husband? That she’d been kind to Lyla? Certainly none of that indicated I had feelings for her.
“Don’t be an ass,” I said, feeling a little guilty about calling an older lady an ass. But I knew Bonnie could handle it, maybe even liked it.
“You’re denying it?” she said.
“Hell, yeah, I’m denying it….For one, she’s married.”
“So?” Bonnie said. “When has that ever stopped anyone?”
“Cynic,” I said, thinking that I had never touched a married woman.
“Well?”
“Well…for another, she’s the mother of this jerk kid.”
“The same jerk kid who you gave permission to ask your daughter out?”
“I told you. I want Lyla to come to her own conclusions….And maybe, if she and Finch become friends, she could spend a little time with Nina. That would be good for her, no?”
Bonnie nodded, a hint of a smirk on her face.
“What?” I said.
“Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“You don’t feel anything for this woman? Not even a teensy-tiny crush?”
“That’s the wrong word for it entirely.”
“What’s the right word?” she said. “What’s that look you keep getting on your face when you talk about her? Intrigue?”
“That’s too strong, too….At most?…Maybe I’m a little curious.”
“About?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I just kind of want to know her deal…like how she ended up with that douchebag of a husband.”
Bonnie rubbed her fingers together in the universal sign of money and raised one eyebrow.
“Yeah. Maybe,” I said. “But I get the feeling it’s not that simple….She just doesn’t strike me as a gold digger….Something else is going on there. It’s almost as if she’s…I don’t know…”
“Do you think there is abuse?” Bonnie said.
“No. Nothing that sinister. That’s not my read, anyway…but something doesn’t add up,” I said. “She’s clearly not in sync with the guy….Like, I don’t think she’s told him we’ve met. At all. She seems trapped. At the very least, unhappy. Really unhappy.”
Bonnie nodded, then said, “What if she ends up having a romantic interest in you?”
“Not possible,” I said as quickly and adamantly as I could, even while I wondered what it might be like to kiss Nina.
* * *
—
WHEN I GOT home a few hours later, I noticed that Lyla had changed clothes and was now wearing a sundress that I hadn’t seen before.
“That’s pretty,” I said, pointing at it. “Are you going out?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I’m going to the Luke Bryan concert. If that’s okay?”
“With who?” I said.
“Grace,” she said.
“Where’s the show?”
“Twelfth and Porter.”
I nodded. “How are you getting there?”
“Grace is picking me up. We’re getting ready at her house.”
“Why not get ready here?”
“She has a bigger bathroom.”
“Okay. But remember. Your curfew is eleven.”
“I know, Dad,” she said with a loud sigh.
I looked at her a long beat, then said, “All right, Lyla. Have fun….Just please don’t let me down.”
* * *
—
LATER THAT NIGHT, after Lyla was picked up by Grace, and I did a few things around the house, I decided I’d drive a little to distract myself from my feeling of doom and gloom. So I did about four uneventful trips, including a back-and-forth from the airport, all with solo passengers and no conversation, exactly how I like it.
A little before ten, I got pinged for a pickup at 404 Kitchen, a nice restaurant in the Gulch. The drop-off was for No. 308, a bar on Gallatin Avenue. I knew from experience with those locations that I was probably getting one of two rides—either a couple on a date or a girls’ night out. If the latter, they’d likely be single women or divorcées (married women typically got together on weekdays, not weekends). Either way, they’d be drunk, or well on their way, which I guess was the whole point of Uber.
Sure enough, when I pulled up to the restaurant, I saw a pair of middle-aged women who looked like they were having a big time. As they both slid ungracefully into my car, their intoxication was confirmed by all the usual hallmarks—most notably, loud, shallow, repetitive commentary. I quickly gathered that the alpha, bitchier of the two was married; the other, who happened to be prettier but perhaps a bit dimmer, was either single or divorced. To be clear, I gathered all that not because I was interested in anything they had to say but simply because it was impossible to tune them out. At the moment, they were focusing on some guy they’d just run into outside the restaurant.
“You know who that was, right?” Married said.
“No. Who?”
“The CEO of Hedberg. He’s worth a bloody fortune. And his wife just passed away. Cancer,” she said as if announcing tomorrow’s weather forecast.
Single sighed and said, “That’s soo sad.”
“Yes. Which means he’s going to need lots of comfort.” Married let out a snort.
“Jackie! That’s awful,” Single said, but she did not sound appalled, as the two turned their attention to their phones, namely the selfies they’d just taken outside the restaurant.
Here we go, I thought. The debate about which photos to delete and which to post.