Just Flirt (21 page)

Sure? Sure of what?

And since when does my mother not brag about her dates?

The Superflirt Chronicles

… blogs from a teenage flirtologist

Tuesday, July 6

A
N APOLOGY

MOOD: Miserable

MUSIC: “What Can I Say,” Brandi Carlile

D—I’m so sorry. Please let me explain.

N.

17
Dee

I should talk to Natalie.

I should end the silence between us that has done nothing but make me feel miserable all weekend. Even watching the fireworks with Mom on Sunday night didn’t bring me any joy, not when I knew Natalie was working in the store by herself while everyone else was having fun.

It’s not as though she hasn’t tried. She’s texted, called, e-mailed—everything short of hiring skywriters and renting a carrier pigeon to send me her apologies.

Then there’s what she posted yesterday.

And the fact that after reading through every single entry—sometimes twice—it’s become clear that her blog was about more than flirting. It was about helping women be stronger.

But if she didn’t know me, she’d hate me.

How do you respond to something like that? Do you say, oh, okay, thanks—good to know? Or, gee, glad we’re friends, then, huh? And how well do I know Natalie if she thought it was okay to share what was supposed to be nothing but a fun joke between us with the rest of the world? My mother read it. Madeline read it, and judging from the way two women in dowdy swimsuits keep glancing my way while I’m taking a break by the pool on Wednesday afternoon, they must have read it, too.

Jake read it.

And, by the time school starts, every one of my classmates will have as well, guaranteeing that my senior year will be as sucky as my junior.

I slump in my lounge chair and watch as a bunch of guests gather at the sand court for an impromptu badminton game. Jake shows an elderly woman who is clearly charmed by his good manners how to serve. So far, he hasn’t ragged on me about the blog, just like he’s never once teased me about the letter I wrote Blaine last year, even though he surely must have known about it. And he invited me to his race this weekend, saying how a break would do me good, although he probably invited Roxanne as well.

Or whoever his new little texting buddy is.

The gate behind me creaks. I turn to see Mom walking through, looking out of place in her work boots among the flip-flops and bathing suits. She waves at a sun-soaked, pampered woman from New Jersey and then sits on the lounge chair beside me, wearily stretching her legs out and motioning to the sand court. “Hey, toots, shall we join them?”

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 …