I cross my arms and wait. I can handle whatever it is that has brought Jude Mercer to my doorstep. I just needed to button my pants first.
“I’ve been worrying about your car,” he says as he walks past me and deposits his jacket on the couch. “I thought I could take a look. See what I can fix.”
“Oh.” I search for a polite way to tell him to fuck off, because I don’t think I can handle another five minutes of staring at him in his tight shirt with his stupid tattoo peeking out from the sleeve. Not without jumping him anyway. “That’s not necessary. I know a guy…”
“Yeah me,” he interrupts. “Look, I brought my tools over.”
I’m well aware of that.
“I don’t need help,” I blurt out.
“You’ve made that pretty clear.” But he continues toward the garage. “Max and I have an agreement.”
“But what about—”
He flashes me a grin that makes me forget my objection. “You’ll have to take it up with Max.”
I don’t take it up with Max. Instead I pace for a while. Then I try to watch the movie again, but I decide it might send the wrong message if Jude walks in and catches me tearing up over a TV movie. I begin and abandon a dozen activities before it’s time to make dinner. Water is boiling on the stove when Amie lets herself in the front door.
“What is that?” I eye the package tucked into the top of her purse, but she snags the bag before I can investigate.
“I brought you something.” Mischief twinkles in her eyes as she holds it away from me. “But first tell me what the unholy noise is emanating from our garage.”
I search for an explanation that won’t result in her rushing out to ogle Jude as he works. “Pest control.”
“Pest control drives a yellow Jeep, huh? I didn’t know we had an infestation problem.” She glances toward the front door. “If it sounds that bad, maybe we should make a run for it.”
“Not necessary.” There’s no point to lying to her. Amie is, and has always been, a distracted creature. “Come on, I’m making mac-n-cheese for Max, and you have a present for me.”
She follows me, her nose scrunching when I empty the blue box of noodles into a pot of boiling water. Processed foods are an abomination according to her. As the mother of a four-year-old, I hold no such prejudices. I’d once scoffed at individual yogurt packets and boxed juice. Now I understand. But I don’t try to stop her when she pulls out a block of aged cheddar and begins to grate it. A few minutes later, she’s starting a roux for her homemade cheese sauce. At least, Max is used to the gourmet version of preschooler cuisine. As she begins to add the cheese, she zeroes in on me.
“So about the pests in the garage…” she trails away, waiting for me to fill in the blank.
“It’s really big,” I say in mock solemnity. “It had to be dealt with.”
She shakes her whisk at me, splattering the kitchen with half melted cheese.
“Hey, we don’t have a kitchen crew to clean that up.” I swipe the whisk from her and drop it in the pot.
“Spill,” she demands. “Or I’ll add broccoli to this.”
“Why punish Max?” I skirt around her to grab apple juice from the fridge.
“Because I know you’re going to eat, too, and you hate broccoli. Which is ridiculous. You’re a grown woman.” She pauses mid-lecture and returns to her sauce.
“So that’s it?” I lean against the counter and try to catch her eye. “You’re going to punish me with vegetables?”
“I have to do something. This situation is more serious than I thought,” she says quietly not looking up from her sauce, which to be fair is at a pivotal stage.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Get the bag.”
I frown but her cryptic attitude shift and the mystery package are too tempting to ignore. Picking up the bag, I peek inside and find a long black box. “Did you buy me my own cooking utensils again, because the stuff I got at the grocery store is fine.”
“That is not true. That stuff fell apart. I switched it out with Le Creuset months ago. Nope this is something you need even more, especially now that you have a pest problem.”
I don’t miss the suggestive way she says pest. She knows it’s not an exterminator in the garage. But a present is a present, so I take the lid off and shriek. A number of words cross my mind as I stare. Big. Purple. Long. Thick.
But mostly: dildo.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I dump the box on the table and back away like it’s a snake. “I don’t need a…a…”
“Vibrator?” she offers. “Acceptance is the first step, babe. You need to accept that your vagina has been out of commission for so long that archaeologists are planning digs there.”
“That’s not remotely true.” I’m not holding it, but I can’t stop staring at it. Is the realistic shape necessary? What’s the point if it’s purple?