“What do you mean he uses the fold-over baggies instead of Ziploc? What kind of a monster is he?”
I shoot her a dubious look implying she is being way overdramatic about how Greg stores his food.
“Focus on the important part, Callie,” I scold. “He spilled. The. Wine.”
“I was trying to forget that part. Party fouls are too traumatic to think about.” She snatches a box of Twinkies from one of the bags and breaks open the package. Junk food is much more our speed on Saturday playdates. “What’s with all the plastic grocery bags full of food, anyway? Are you making us eat all the leftover crap that’s about to rot in your fridge?”
I wish I could be offended at the comment, but she pretty much has me nailed. “I haven’t had time to go to the store. Be glad for what we have. Here,” I hand her a knife and a bunch of half rotten bananas. “Cut these up and throw the good parts in this bowl. Maybe we can trick the kids into thinking it’s part of a fruit salad.”
“It’s only bananas.”
“Have you met our kids?” We look over and see Fiona pushing Max, Christopher, and Peyton on an old-school metal merry-go-round, circa 1979. Not sure why the city hasn’t taken it out yet, since I’m sure it gives anyone who uses it during the summer first degree burns, but at least it keeps the kids happy.
Until Christopher loses his grip and goes flying off it, landing in the dirt. The girls all giggle as he shakes it off, and runs to jump back on.
I glance back at Callie who shrugs in response. “Point made. We don’t have the brightest bulbs in the bunch.”
“Is it any surprise? Look at who we mated with.”
We both laugh at my quick wit as we finish setting things up.
“Seriously, Elena?” She holds up the stack of red Solo cups and half a 2-liter of Diet Sprite. “Tell me this isn’t left over from the last birthday party at your place.”
I screw up my face, trying to come up with some sort of witty explanation. Eh. Who cares. It is what it is.
“It’s what I had. Between my mom getting sick, Greg watching Max, work, and everything else going on, I haven’t had the time. Besides, it’s so much more cost effective to get rid of what I have instead of letting it go bad.”
She takes a sip of the drink she just poured and makes a wry face. “Too late. This stuff is totally flat.”
“They won’t care. All they’ll know is its sugar water.”
“I hope you brought something different for us.”
Holding up two 16-ounce bottles of Dr. Pepper, our favorite unhealthy beverage, I flash her a triumphant smile. “I had to get gas on the way here, so I grabbed some adult beverages.”
“I’d hardly call these adult beverages,” she quips as she snatches one out of my hand and twists off the top. “But I’m not complaining.” Taking a big gulp and following it up with a contented sigh, she adds, “The only way this would be better is if it was a fountain drink from Buc-ee’s. They have the best carbonated water to syrup ratio.”
“Mmmm….” I respond, getting excited over the thought of visiting our favorite truck stop. “One of these days, we’re making a road trip to Madisonville to buy some Beaver Nuggets.”
“We really should do our Christmas shopping there this year.”
To anyone outside of Texas, the idea of grocery shopping at a truck stop would sound foreign. But Buc-ee’s is like no other place out there. It’s like the Neimann Marcus of truck stops. Not only do they have the largest and cleanest restrooms you have ever seen in your life, they have a huge deli that specializes in everything from sandwiches and grill items, to fudge and pastries. And their gift section rivals any boutique store in the country. I have bought more than one baby gift in the children’s section of that place.
And yes, I said children’s section. As in, there is more than one section of gifts and goods to choose from. It really is a one-stop-shop of unique and quirky present ideas.
“Sounds good to me. When we get home, we can look at our calendars and block out a day when James has the girls and you don’t have any parties.”
Callie throws all the discarded banana peels in one of the now empty plastic bags. There is probably more rotten banana being tossed than there is good banana to eat, but at least they didn’t totally go to waste. I’m tired of spending a hundred bucks a year so I can watch the ripening process as it happens on my counter.
“Why don’t you see if Greg can watch them that day?” She makes a face as one of the rotten parts squishes on her finger. “Seems like you guys have been trading off a lot lately.” She gestures toward Peyton who is happily picking flowers next to a wrestling Max and Christopher.
“Yeah, Libby decided she had to work all weekend, so she dumped Pey off with him.”
Callie holds up her hand, looking confused. “She has a job?”
“Supposedly. She won’t give Greg a straight answer about where she’s working, and I’m not sure he really cares beyond curiosity anyway.”
“Maybe she’s a stripper,” Callie spouts off as she combines the remnants of three different bags of chips into another bowl. That’s three more things I won’t have to bring home to my pantry.
“I thought of that. But knowing Libby, she thinks she’s too good to be a stripper.” I shrug. “Maybe she’s a high-priced escort.”
Callie munches on a chip and thinks for a second. “I wonder how much escorts really make. And if they really do have to put out.”
I laugh. “I’ll be sure to ask her next time I run into her.”
“I triple dog dare you.”
Dropping the handful of leftover ketchup packets that have been saved up over the years onto the picnic table, I gape at her. “You can’t just skip to triple dog dare! You have to start with a regular dare!”
“No way, man. I know you too well. I’ll have to challenge up every time you see her and it could be months before I get my answer.”
“Selfish, selfish woman,” I grumble.
“No, smart, smart BFF,” she brags. “Speaking of Peyton’s parental units, where is Greg anyway? How come you have Peyton?”
Things are finally set up enough that I can pull out the main entrée... hot dogs. Of course, even when I don’t have time to go grocery shopping, I always have extra hot dogs on hand. Based on Callie’s non-reaction, this is not surprising to anyone.
“He had to coach a meet today. I don’t know if another coach got sick or what, but he had to leave at six-thirty this morning to get there on time.”
Callie waggles her eyebrows. “So I guess you had a slumber party last night?”
I raise one eyebrow in return. “I never kiss and tell.”
“Liar.”
“I know.”
“I wanna know about this slumber party.”
“And I want you to call the kids for lunch.”
She climbs off the bench with a groan. “You’re such a slave driver.” But she does it anyway.
Just like I had planned, ok, fine, like I had hoped, the kids are perfectly content with hot dogs, mixed chips, half rotten bananas, and flat Diet Sprite. We call it a “mish-mosh” lunch and they are so entertained by the word “mish-mosh”, they keep giggling while they eat, which is making Callie and I giggle, too.
Until a familiar voice shows up.
“Hi Callie. Elena,” Deborah says in greeting, a tight look on her face.
This is the first time we have run into each other since the incident I call “Doomsday Playdate.” She looks nervous, which is not something I’ve ever seen on her face. The only thing I’ve ever seen on her face is a smile, or a scowl. And possible a speck of Brie during the RowRow party at her house, after she “dropped” the plate full of cheese on the counter.
But this anxiety is different and, dare I say, the most honest I’ve ever seen her be. Trevor must feel her nerves, as he’s hiding behind her legs.
It makes me kind of sad that her poor son, who had such a hard time making friends with my girls, has already lost his nerve with our kids. And dammit, if that doesn’t make me feel guilty about cutting off that relationship so abruptly.
“Hi, Deborah.”
“Deborah,” Callie and I address her simultaneously.
Deborah clears her throat. “I didn’t expect to see you guys here.”
“We come every Saturday,” Callie explains, and I watch Deborah’s face fall as she realizes she’s been uninvited to our playdates.
And the guilt piles on.
Well, hell.
“Oh,” Deborah utters sadly, nodding her head like she understands why we wouldn’t want her around.
The kids keep munching away, staying unusually quiet. They’re either picking up on the tension surrounding them, or they’re really enjoying their mish-mash. It must be the food. I made it with love.
#sarcasm
“So, um, I wanted to apologize,” Deborah utters, shocking Callie and I both.
We look at each other, Callie’s drink bottle frozen halfway to her mouth.
She clears her throat and puts the bottle down on the table. “What exactly are you apologizing for?”
Deborah nervously bites her lip before responding. “For the way I treated you, Elena.”
I have to give her credit. I never expected for Deborah to speak to me again, let alone apologize. I admit, my respect for her has shot up several notches because she had the guts to approach us.
“What do you mean?” I question. I know what she means, but I want to hear her explanation. Maybe there’s something I’m missing and some reason I need to forgive and forget.
She sniffs and glances around the park, avoiding eye contact. “My husband says I’m really judgmental and…” she glances at the kids and lowers her voice before saying, “… witchy.”
My lips quirk to the side. The only little ears she’s protecting are Trevor’s. And maybe her own.
“He points it out all the time. I really don’t mean to be, it’s just…” She shifts on her feet, biting her lip again and wringing her hands in front of her. Now half the kids are watching the awkward display in front of them like it’s their own personal dinner theater. “My mom was really, really strict with public impressions. I couldn’t do anything, go anywhere without an outfit, full make-up, and my hair done. Not even the doctor’s office when I was sick. She always used to say the way you present yourself is the most important thing.”
“Your first impression isn’t the problem, Deborah,” I point out.
She nods. “I know. But sometimes when we’re with other people, especially people I don’t know, it makes me really anxious to think about who is going to overhear a lewd comment or think I’m not classy enough because of who I’m with.”
“So I’m not classy enough for you,” I challenge, and she winces.
“That’s not what I mean,” she quavers. “It’s not that you’re not classy enough. It’s that you don’t care what people think of you. I admire that so, so much. I wish I could be like that. But the anxiety I feel sometimes about being perfect is almost crippling.”
Glancing over at Callie, I see her sitting back, letting Deborah say her piece and letting me decide how to handle the situation. Not that I have any idea what to do. But knowing Deborah feels that bad about herself makes me sad.
“I didn’t mean to make you think I was judging you, Elena.” Tears glisten in her eyes and I realize how hard this conversation is for her. “In my mind, I was reminding you to be the best version of yourself while we were here.”
“But that’s not what it felt like.”
“I know.” Her voice is so quiet I have to lean in to hear her. “And I’m sorry. I really like you guys and wish we could be friends, but I understand why you wouldn’t want to be around me. I hope if we see you out here again, you’ll let Trevor play with your kids. I want him to grow up to be more like them than like me.”
Well, hell. If a mother’s plea for friends for her child isn’t enough to warrant letting this go, I don’t know what is.
I take a breath and look at Callie who is smiling. She knows my heart and knows what I need to forgive people boils down to one word… remorse. And damn it all, if Deborah didn’t take full responsibility for her own actions.
Leaning forward on my elbows, I look her straight in the eye. She looks sad, remorseful, and a little bit scared.
“What I like about you, Deborah, is your smile. You bring this joy into the room wherever you go.”
She blinks back her tears, shock evident on her face.
“But then you ruin it by worrying what people are thinking about you. You completely miss that you make such an amazing first impression.”
“Really?” she murmurs. “You really think that about me?”
I nod. “I absolutely do. So, here’s what’s going to happen.”
Callie chuckles but we ignore her as we work out the boundaries of our own friendship.
“You and Trevor are going to join us for lunch, and then we’re going to let the kids play together while we sit here and enjoy the adult interaction.”
“Ok,” she agrees quickly, wiping a lone tear off her cheek.
“And every time you start that judgmental crap again, I’m going to call you out. I spent a lot of time learning how to be ok with myself and who I am, I’m not going to let you unravel it.”
“And I don’t want to,” she practically pleads. “I like you the way you are.”
“And you’re going to learn to like yourself the way you are, too. Got it?”
The tears are flowing freely now as she sits down in an empty spot, Trevor sitting down next to her. Callie and I hand them each a hot dog and pass over the bowls of chips and browning bananas.
As she fixes a plate for herself and her son, the smile she normally wears, the genuine one that expresses her happiness, crosses her face. Trevor even seems lighter as the children begin to chatter again, seemingly aware that the show is over.
Well, almost.
“I assume you guys said the blessing before we sat down?” Deborah challenges.
I give her a hard glare and she winces.
“I did it again, didn’t I?”
“You did.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s ok.” And just to prove that I can accept her for her flaws if she can accept mine, I hand her the olive branch I never thought I’d ever give…
“Can I borrow your hand sanitizer?”
Her responding grin practically lights up the playground.
Yep. Forgiving her was definitely the right thing to do.
And just like that, our weekly playdates expand by two.