Page 204 of Story of My Life
“Darling, don’t damage your fingernails,” Mom called out.
“Well, here’s a message for you and your BFF publisher friends,Jim. Fuck off, shit waffle.”
A ripple of laughter rolled through the crowd, and someone whooped.
“She’s getting a lot of mileage out of theshit wafflething,” Gage observed.
“I’ll write what I want,” I said, continuing to stab Jim in the chest. “And if you don’t want me to do everything in my power to get people to stop buying those books you own, I’d leave rightnow and never come back. Oh, and never,evermention my name to anyone again.”
Cam grunted his approval a split second before our audience burst into raucous applause.
“Take your fancy pants and get out,” Gator hollered.
Jim opened his mouth to argue, but I wouldn’t have been able to hear him over the crowd. He turned on his spiffy driving moccasins and stalked toward the parking lot.
It happened so fast that I almost missed it.
A scaly fish head descended from the heavens and landed with asplatright in Jim’s path.
“Better hurry. You angered Goose,” Gage called to him.
Jim sidestepped the fish and, holding a protective arm over his head, ran for his life.
Cam gripped my shoulder and gave me an enthusiastic shake. “Nice job, Trouble.”
Zoey cupped her hands and yelled, “Later, loser.”
My mother joined us in watching Jim’s walk of shame. “I think it’s time we had a long talk.”
I came downstairsafter an emotional thirty-minute shower. My hair was wet, and I was wearing three layers of deodorant. My mother was looking lovely and fresh on my nice white couch. There was a frosty bottle of chardonnay on the table in front of her.
Zoey undraped herself from the armchair and got to her feet. “I’m borrowing your shower.”
Judging from her expression, I had a feeling Zoey had confirmed Jim’s claims about my publisher. But I was too emotionally exhausted to ask the question.
“Have at it,” I said, accepting the glass of wine she handed me as she passed. “Watch out for raccoons.”
Mom patted the cushion next to her with a delicate-pink-manicured hand.
“How do you do that?” I asked her as I took a seat, pulling my knees to my chest.
She cocked her head, diamonds twinkling in her ears. “Do what?”
“Look like you’re in the middle of a magazine shoot.”
She patted her hair, which was fashioned into a sleek chestnut bun. “I never leave the house unarmed,” she quipped. “Now, let’s move on to why you didn’t tell me what happened between you and Jim.”
“I told you we got divorced,” I hedged.
“You didn’t tell me he took you to the cleaners.”
“He didn’t take me to the cleaners,” I said directly into my wine.
“He got the rights to your intellectual property. That’s unacceptable.”
Unacceptableseemed like such a sterile word for the feelings I had.
“Darling, I could have helped you,” Mom prompted.
