“Her name is Cheyenne. She’s a twenty-two year old model from St. Petersburg––Russia that is, not Florida––and her name is Cheyenne. How much you wanna bet she doesn’t have a drop of Native American blood in her veins?”

We’re both crammed in the Bloomingdales dressing room. Camilla is busy examining the navy dress she has on, pushing her gigantic boobs around as if she could knead them into getting smaller while I sit in the corner doling out orders. Straightening and smoothing the lower part of the dress, eyes still trained on the image in the mirror, she says, “How’s that? How do my boobs look? Be honest.”

“Like you’re hiding two pot belly pigs in your bra.”

She tears her gaze away from the floor length mirror and levels me with a glare I’ve seen her use on her rambunctious third graders. Her lips twitching in repressed mirth, she says, “You know what I’d like to hide? My fist in your eye socket.”

I take a big bite of the Swedish fish I bought at Dylan’s Candy Bar. “Get in line. And you said to be honest.” Pointing my headless Swedish fish at a cream colored dress with dolman sleeves, I say, “Try that one on.” With her skin tone, cream always looks amazing on her.

“I don’t have a single thing that fits me anymore.” She huffs. “If I can’t find something today, you’ll be seeing me in a Hefty bag next.” She strips down to her underwear again. Her body is stunning, big belly and all. Left and right she turns. She turns again, checking herself out in the mirror. Huffing, her lush mouth creeps into a frown.

“Stop showing off,” I snap. “Your mother called me about a baby shower.”

Camilla’s attention whips back to me. There’s violence in her eyes. “I’m only going to say this one more time. I do NOT want a baby shower. I’m fat. I’m mostly in a bad mood. And nothing fits me. My husband keeps buying shit we don’t need. We have so much shit I’m not even unpacking half of it; I’m sending it directly to the Red Cross and some other children’s charities. Which is only making more work for me and Mercedes. So help me God, if someone organizes a surprise baby shower, I will commit bloody murder.”

I chew my candy slowly, my brows halfway up my head. “So you don’t want a baby shower?” Her nostrils flare and I know not to push her any farther. “No wedding and no baby shower. You’re no fun. For the record, I want you to make a big deal out of mine––unless I’m forced to marry my prison mistress, in which case let’s never talk about it.”

“No one is becoming a prison wife. At least, no one I know.” She gives me one of her signature side-eye smirks. “And I had a wedding.”

“City Hall does not count. Speaking of weddings, Parker’s getting married at the botanical gardens.”

Camilla’s large brown eyes widen then narrow. “That’s where you wanted to get married––how do you know?”

“Facebook.”

With a disapproving frown, she says, “I thought we agreed you were going to stop using.”

“It’s either Facebook, or flog myself.”

“I hope he gets gangrene of the testicles.” She says this with a look of pure disgust on her face. This pregnant version of my best friend is proving a lot of fun.

“I like where your head’s at. Speaking of testicles, my roommate is giving me blue balls.” She seems unimpressed by my prior statement so I up the ante. “He kissed me.”

Her eyes cut to mine again, this time sparkling with interest. “He did?”

I slow nod. “It was good, too.”

Good? The understatement of the year. More like burn the house down good, no chaffing dishes required.

“And?”

“And nothing. Nothing can happen. He could get disbarred. Apparently it’s unethical to sleep with your prisoner, or ward, or whatever I am.”

“Imagine that,” the wiseass drawls.

“My book boyfriends aren’t even cuttin’ it anymore.” I point my fifth Swedish fish at her. “This could get ugly if I don’t get laid soon.”

She slips the cream dress over her head. “I’m still processing that you aren’t sleeping with Justin.”

Time for the obligatory eye roll. “Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Oh, I don’t know––maybe because he was always coming over and hanging out in your bedroom when I lived with you. What else would you be doing in there?”

“Talking. He’s a big talker. There was a small window of opportunity in the beginning. Until he told me I reminded him of his older sister, the one who raised him, and that window closed in a New York minute.”

“Nooo,” she says, choking back laughter as she zips up the dress.

“Yep.” I shove a handful of the gummy bears in my mouth. “Young men. Gotta love ‘em. Be glad you dodged the dating bullet twice.”

Camilla turns toward me, the cream dress hitting her in all the right places.

“What do you think?”

“I think we have a winner.”

* * *

Audrey has been texting with alarming frequency lately. Three nights ago, as I was going through my lines for yet another commercial I found out this morning I did not get a callback for, I got this at eleven pm.

Oh shit sticks.

An egregious lie. I was barely thirteen, but she doesn’t need to know that. The texts didn’t stop there.

If this is anything like what I put my grandmother through, I would’ve gotten rid of me. The texts eventually graduated to phone calls. This happened last night at…you guessed it, eleven pm.

“What do I do to get a guy I like to notice me?”

Not even a hello. What happened to hello, please, and thank you? My grandmother would have a conniption if she knew.

“Nothing––until you turn seventeen.”

“Come on.”

I chew on her question for a long while. “I don’t think anyone can answer that question, Audrey––Oprah can’t even answer that question.”

“Please, Amber,” she whines.

“Who is this boy?”

“His name is Grady and he plays baseball and draws his own comics and he’s a really good artists.”

“He’s in your grade, right?”

“Yeah. We sit next to each other in art.”

Thank God for small favors. “Well, the short version is that boys are dense and they only see what they want to see. The long version is that sometimes it takes a grand gesture to get their attention.”

“A grand gesture?”

“Yeah, something that puts you under the spotlight and shows them how awesome you are and that they’ve been missing out.” I can’t believe the bullshit coming out of my mouth. However, I suspect she won’t stop until she gets something out of me.

“So…what do I do?”

“Since you noticed how talented he is maybe you can find a way to show him how talented you are.”

A long pause tells me she’s mulling this over.

“Okay, yeah, I can do that.”

“And Audrey––”

“Yeah?”

“No more eleven pm strategy sessions. Get some sleep.”

“K, bye.”

That’s why I’m not at all surprised when I received a text from her half an hour ago as I’m on my way to work asking if I’m busy. What I was not prepared for was this––

In a panic I called Fredo for a ride to Long Island. He was at the townhouse not fifteen minutes later, God bless his heart.

“Don’t worry. We’ll be there in no time,” he tries to assure me.

Yeah, it’s not working. I nod as I blindly stare out the passenger side window and rub my sweaty palms on my jeans. Rationally, I know he’s right. And yet I can’t seem to stop my stomach from churning. I’ve never felt this kind of anxiety. And quite frankly, if this is what being a parent feels like, then sign me up for tubal ligation surgery, stat.

“Do you have kids?”

“A son. He’s sixteen.” Fredo throws me a brief smile. “I’m blessed. He’s a really good kid.”

“Did he ever pull any teenage nonsense on you?”

Fredo’s expression grows thoughtful before he answers. “He didn’t have it easy growing up. I was going through some stuff.” With a sideways glance, he gauges my reaction. “Being unemployed for so long gets to you. I went through a bout of depression.”

If bartending has taught me anything, it’s that each and ever one of us has a little red wagon of issues we drag around. Sadly, nothing surprises me anymore. “Are you doing better?”

He nods, a small smile softening his blunt masculine features. “Every man needs a purpose, and being able to take care of his family is an important one.”

“Her friends ditched her at the mall and she has no money for a cab. How would you handle it?”

“My two cents. Don’t say or do anything impulsive. Hear her out first. Take it from someone who’s learned how to parent by trial and error.”

By the time we reach the mall I’ve lost half my body weight in sweat. I once drank three Monster drinks in a row and felt nowhere near as jittery as I do now. The car hasn’t even come to a full stop and I’m out the door, yelling at Fredo to meet me inside and to keep his phone close. The weather still being on the chilly side I warned him that she could be wearing purple Uggs and most likely carrying a purple backpack.

In the food court, I spot her sitting by herself, chin in hand and staring at her phone. Relief spreads through me, the sweat on my back and forehead cooling. Shivering, I wipe the sweat on my forehead with the back of my hand. As I walk up, I notice that she’s flipping through her Instagram account and a pickle of unease crawls up the back of my neck.

“I thought your phone was dead?”

Startled, she looks up with big wide eyes. Something stinks and it’s not the fast food.

“Tell me you didn’t lie. Tell me you actually called your parents.” Anger bubbles up from my gut because I already know the answer to that. Her gaze falls to the floor, her bony shoulders curving.

“Audrey!”

Suddenly, she stands. “I’m sorry!” she wails. Some of the mothers and kids sitting nearby turn and stare at the commotion. I tell them to mind their own business with a glare.

“I can’t believe you!” I grind out, jaw in jeopardy of snapping in two. “Get your things and let’s go.”

“I’m sorry, okay.” She ducks her head and shoves her backpack over her shoulders, pulling her sleeves over her hands. Oh please, is she crying? Of course, dramatic streak a mile wide in this family.

“You’re crying? Really? I’m losing about 400 bucks in tips tonight and you’re crying? I’m the one that’s crying, Audrey. On the inside. I’m inside crying for being so goddamn stupid.”

With that I turn and start marching through the mall. In the meantime, I shoot Fredo a quick text that I’ve found her and to meet us out front.

“Why did you come?”

“Because that’s what I do, I chase after things,” I say yelling my response while ironically walking away. Audrey picks up the pace, staying right behind me.

“Things, or people?”

“Both.”

“People you love?”

My feet come to a hard stop and Audrey bumps into my back. “Yes.”

“Does that mean you love me?” I turn and find her peering up at me with nervous anticipation, her eyes still wet, her cheeks pink. Why doesn’t she just drive a stake through my heart? Maybe dangle some garlic under my nose.

“Yes. And Audrey, here’s a serious warning. I despise manipulation. Manipulating me will only make me love you less, so don’t do it again.”

Lying and subterfuge are tedious and time consuming. I don’t possess the requisite energy or desire to keep track of lies. That is why I always go with the truth––no matter how painful, ugly, or savage.

Without missing a beat she throws her skinny arms around my waist and hugs me tightly. My arms hover over her shoulder, unsure where to land. I don’t know why I’m surprised at her open display of affection. I remember all too well how much I craved it when I was her age. Shit, I still do.

I would do anything to get some attention at her age, which means I was often obnoxious, which also means I usually received none. It was a vicious cycle. One I don’t want Audrey falling into. My arms fold around her, my hands running up and down her back as she presses closer.

“Let’s get you home.”

“I love you, too. In case you didn’t know,” she blurts out, her voice muffled by my clothes.

“I know.”

“Are you gonna tell Mom and Dad?”

I give her the old suspicious eyeball. “Not this time. This is your one get out of jail free card and you just used it.”

She nods. Keeping my arm around her, we make our way to the parking lot.