Cream of the Crop
Page 67
Across the table Leo, Polly, Chad, and Logan were all staring back at me with dropped jaws, and behind them Roxie shook her head with a tightly drawn mouth.
Oscar, however, looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh.
“Hot dog?” I asked brightly, setting the tray down in front of him.
“Looks good,” he answered, running a hand along his jaw and failing to conceal his laughter miserably. “Which one is mine?”
“The two with everything,” I replied with a grin, picking up his bottle of beer and draining half in one draft. “Thirsty.”
I felt an insistent tapping on my shoulder, and though I at first tried to ignore her, it soon became clear that she wasn’t going away.
“Yes, Missy?” I asked in my nicest voice, turning toward her.
“Oscar doesn’t like his hot dogs like that,” she chirped, looking over my shoulder at the tray.
“Sorry?”
“Oscar never gets anything but mustard on his hot dogs.”
“You don’t say,” I answered, trying to keep my cool. Who the hell did she think she was? Ex-wife meant ex- on having a say; ex- on being a know-it-all; ex- on weighing in on anything about Oscar.
She looked carefully at the tray in front of him, cataloguing everything that was wrong with the wieners. She raised a critical eyebrow, cocked her head to the side, and through tiny pursed lips said, “And he hates onions. Did you know he hates onions?”
I let a smile creep across my face—the smile I used for creepy guys on the subway and men who make fat jokes. Part Stepford, part demon, all New York City Don’t Mess With Me. “How would I know he doesn’t like onions? We’ve been too busy fucking.”
Leo picked Polly up and spirited her away from the table, shaking his head in the same way Roxie had, while Polly giggled something about needing a larger piggy bank.
Chad and Logan stopped cold, their mouths full of hot dog.
Roxie was frozen, too, but the O shape of her mouth was more resigned than surprised.
Missy’s eyes filled with tears, first the edges, then spilling into the center, blending with her now visible mascara to make mud.
Oscar’s hand settled on my shoulder. And it felt . . . different. Could a hand feel disapproving? I turned and saw his face—and holy shit, that eyebrow was beyond disapproving.
Missy climbed out of the seat and took off for the barn. I caught the image out of the corner of my eye, and it wasn’t lost on me that her hands were over her eyes.
How is she managing to navigate, then?
Inner snark, it’s time to stand down.
Now Oscar was standing up—and looking down at me with an unidentifiable expression. Confusion? Hurt? Shame?
Disappointment.
“Oh come on,” I muttered as he squeezed my shoulder, then took off in a slow jog in the same direction as Miss Missy.
“How is this . . . but why would he . . . but she knew that . . . and I didn’t mean . . . but she’s always around and . . . son of a bitch.” I slumped onto the seat I’d claimed so dramatically and studied the hot dogs. “How was I supposed to know he didn’t like onions?”
“Because you’ve been too busy fucking?” Logan said.
I looked up to see them all watching to see what happened next, and I slouched farther into the table, chin in hands.
Logan exchanged a glance with Chad. “You okay?”
“Am I way off base here? I mean, it’s weird, right? That she acts like she’s—”
Three mouths spoke at once.
“Still in love?”
“Wants him back.”
“Would love to have that hot dog back inside her bun.”
“Wow,” I said. “I’m glad it’s not just me.”
“Totally not just you, sweetie,” Chad said, patting my hand. “Those two are like the poster children for how adults should behave after a divorce—”
“—if one of those adults is still totally in love,” Logan finished.
“You don’t have to say it like that,” Chad admonished him. “Natalie’s clearly upset here, and I think we need to make sure that—”
“Oh, make sure nothing. She’s a big girl, and she knows what’s going on. Didn’t you see that Dynasty moment just now? She annihilated Missy; it was—”
“Oh, you two stop,” Roxie said, turning to face me. “It doesn’t matter what we say about Oscar and Missy. What does Oscar say about him and Missy?”
“Not much. We haven’t really talked about it,” I admitted. “I guess we should, though, right? I mean, that’s what grown-ups do . . . I think.”
“Don’t ask me. I’m still not sure if I’m an official grown-up yet, although being listed as a second emergency contact at Polly’s school made me feel about ten feet tall—and scared to death. But also kind of . . . honored, that Leo entrusted her to me.”
I sat quietly for a moment. “You really are an official grown-up.”
She nodded. “God help us all.”
We threw away the hot dogs and went off to find Leo and Polly. I got a stern glance from Leo, a high five from Polly (who then got a stern glance from Roxie), and a big handful of nothing when I went to find Oscar.
He was nowhere to be found.
Grabbing a ride home with Roxie after we helped Leo clean up a bit, I tossed and turned on the guest room bed, clad in one of her T-shirts, since my weekend bag was in Oscar’s truck.
Where the hell was he? I’d texted him twice, but he didn’t answer. Never one to chase what doesn’t want to be caught, I gave him his space. But I still wondered where he was . . . and what he might be up to.
Oscar, however, looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh.
“Hot dog?” I asked brightly, setting the tray down in front of him.
“Looks good,” he answered, running a hand along his jaw and failing to conceal his laughter miserably. “Which one is mine?”
“The two with everything,” I replied with a grin, picking up his bottle of beer and draining half in one draft. “Thirsty.”
I felt an insistent tapping on my shoulder, and though I at first tried to ignore her, it soon became clear that she wasn’t going away.
“Yes, Missy?” I asked in my nicest voice, turning toward her.
“Oscar doesn’t like his hot dogs like that,” she chirped, looking over my shoulder at the tray.
“Sorry?”
“Oscar never gets anything but mustard on his hot dogs.”
“You don’t say,” I answered, trying to keep my cool. Who the hell did she think she was? Ex-wife meant ex- on having a say; ex- on being a know-it-all; ex- on weighing in on anything about Oscar.
She looked carefully at the tray in front of him, cataloguing everything that was wrong with the wieners. She raised a critical eyebrow, cocked her head to the side, and through tiny pursed lips said, “And he hates onions. Did you know he hates onions?”
I let a smile creep across my face—the smile I used for creepy guys on the subway and men who make fat jokes. Part Stepford, part demon, all New York City Don’t Mess With Me. “How would I know he doesn’t like onions? We’ve been too busy fucking.”
Leo picked Polly up and spirited her away from the table, shaking his head in the same way Roxie had, while Polly giggled something about needing a larger piggy bank.
Chad and Logan stopped cold, their mouths full of hot dog.
Roxie was frozen, too, but the O shape of her mouth was more resigned than surprised.
Missy’s eyes filled with tears, first the edges, then spilling into the center, blending with her now visible mascara to make mud.
Oscar’s hand settled on my shoulder. And it felt . . . different. Could a hand feel disapproving? I turned and saw his face—and holy shit, that eyebrow was beyond disapproving.
Missy climbed out of the seat and took off for the barn. I caught the image out of the corner of my eye, and it wasn’t lost on me that her hands were over her eyes.
How is she managing to navigate, then?
Inner snark, it’s time to stand down.
Now Oscar was standing up—and looking down at me with an unidentifiable expression. Confusion? Hurt? Shame?
Disappointment.
“Oh come on,” I muttered as he squeezed my shoulder, then took off in a slow jog in the same direction as Miss Missy.
“How is this . . . but why would he . . . but she knew that . . . and I didn’t mean . . . but she’s always around and . . . son of a bitch.” I slumped onto the seat I’d claimed so dramatically and studied the hot dogs. “How was I supposed to know he didn’t like onions?”
“Because you’ve been too busy fucking?” Logan said.
I looked up to see them all watching to see what happened next, and I slouched farther into the table, chin in hands.
Logan exchanged a glance with Chad. “You okay?”
“Am I way off base here? I mean, it’s weird, right? That she acts like she’s—”
Three mouths spoke at once.
“Still in love?”
“Wants him back.”
“Would love to have that hot dog back inside her bun.”
“Wow,” I said. “I’m glad it’s not just me.”
“Totally not just you, sweetie,” Chad said, patting my hand. “Those two are like the poster children for how adults should behave after a divorce—”
“—if one of those adults is still totally in love,” Logan finished.
“You don’t have to say it like that,” Chad admonished him. “Natalie’s clearly upset here, and I think we need to make sure that—”
“Oh, make sure nothing. She’s a big girl, and she knows what’s going on. Didn’t you see that Dynasty moment just now? She annihilated Missy; it was—”
“Oh, you two stop,” Roxie said, turning to face me. “It doesn’t matter what we say about Oscar and Missy. What does Oscar say about him and Missy?”
“Not much. We haven’t really talked about it,” I admitted. “I guess we should, though, right? I mean, that’s what grown-ups do . . . I think.”
“Don’t ask me. I’m still not sure if I’m an official grown-up yet, although being listed as a second emergency contact at Polly’s school made me feel about ten feet tall—and scared to death. But also kind of . . . honored, that Leo entrusted her to me.”
I sat quietly for a moment. “You really are an official grown-up.”
She nodded. “God help us all.”
We threw away the hot dogs and went off to find Leo and Polly. I got a stern glance from Leo, a high five from Polly (who then got a stern glance from Roxie), and a big handful of nothing when I went to find Oscar.
He was nowhere to be found.
Grabbing a ride home with Roxie after we helped Leo clean up a bit, I tossed and turned on the guest room bed, clad in one of her T-shirts, since my weekend bag was in Oscar’s truck.
Where the hell was he? I’d texted him twice, but he didn’t answer. Never one to chase what doesn’t want to be caught, I gave him his space. But I still wondered where he was . . . and what he might be up to.
