Page 85 of Lovebug
“It looks like he already has a new girlfriend, sweetie. A much older girlfriend. Not that the age should matter! Like Calliope always says, ‘hashtag love is love,’ right? Not that they’re inlove. I’m sure they are still in the ‘like’ stage, so soon after losing you. Geez, I am really sticking my foot in my mouth right now.”
“It’s okay, Lou. He’s here with his mother.”
“Sorry, Mabes. That is not his mother. They’re holding hands and sort of… cuddling while they stroll.”
“Yeah. That’s them.” I say. “They’re close.”
“Yikes,” Louise marvels.
“You know something? I think in hindsight, that was a big part of our problems. We could never really have an adult relationship because the parental chaperoning never stopped. But… I dunno, maybe it was understandable. Bert’s dad up and left when he was a teenager, so his poor mom leaned on him and—”
“Oh wow, now they’re French kissing!”
“THEY ARE?! WHAT KIND OF FUCKED-UP PEOPLE WAS I ASSOCIATED WITH?”
“Whoa! Kidding, Mabes!” She chuckles. “I was kidding.”
“Oh,” I exhale. “Oh, gosh, good. Not a very funny joke, in my opinion, Louise, but… good. Phew!” I let out a nervous laugh. “Apologies for my language a moment ago, by the way. Not sure where that came from!”
“Scary part is you actually believed the French kissing was feasible,” Louise says. “Hey, I like how you say ‘phew’ unironically.”
“Thanks,” I say from my position still on the ground. “Now that I think about it, though, I should have known it wasn’t feasible. Bert’s never been very active with his tongue.”
“That’swhy you should have known?? Damn, Mabel, it sounds like you dodged a major Bert-sized bullet this week. You know what we should be doing? We should be throwing you a divorce party! People have those now, you know.”
“We weren’t actually married, though. Hadn’t even started planning the wedding.”
“I realize that. There’s just no succinct word for splitting with a fiancé. It’s bigger than ‘breakup,’ but not so epic as ‘divorce.’ Anyway, someone should come up with something.” She gazes back out amongst the festival-goers. “FYI, they’re gone. You can get up now.”
Louise reaches her hand down to me and pulls me to my feet, where I immediately come face-to-face with Naomi Thornton.
“Hello, Mabel,” she sing-songs.
My body jolts back a few inches.
“Oh shit! I mean, oh, snap! I mean… Hi, Mrs. Thornton. Hello.”
Naomi Thornton—president of the board, mother of April, my human-centipede-storytelling-CIT, and woman who not five minutes ago was rubbing sensual circles into the muscular chest of the infuriating man I apparently can’t stop thinking about—stands with a clipboard and a strained smile, staring at me. For some reason, I start frantically rearranging my honeycomb display.
“May I have a word?” she asks smoothly.
“With me?” I chirp.
“Yes.”
“Which one?” I feel my lips quirk up on one side.
“Excuse me?”
“You asked for a word. Which word do you want? Hahaha.”
“Oh, you’re telling a joke. I see.” Her lips flatten into a thin line.
Hm. I guess she’s not feeling as friendly as she was a few minutes ago with Wally.
“Sure.” I make a conscious effort to sober my tone. “Yes, of course you can have ‘a word.’ Whichever word you want. Of course.”
“Wonderful.” She shifts her gaze to Louise, who is still standing beside me. “Alone, please?”
