Perfect Together by Kristen Ashley

Oh boy.

“Manon—”

“I’ll spare you the specifics,” she allowed (thank God). “But the first time I didn’t take his shit, the look on his face, Mom. Whoa. It was like some veil had been ripped away. He’s hot. He’s tall. He’s smart. He’s going to get his Ph.D. I’m sure in the classes he teaches, the girls write things on their eyelids like that chick did in Raiders of the Lost Ark. So, he’s twenty-four and acting like I’m five and he has to guide my way, when I’m twenty. I have a job I don’t need because my parents can afford my college, but I know I need to learn how to go to work and earn money. My grades are great. I’m gorgeous. And he isn’t the only bonbon in the box. Which was what I told him. And he realized he couldn’t steamroll me and seriously, for him, huge turn on.”

Oh Lord.

“Manon—”

“So yeah, I get it. A woman doesn’t want to be a Myrna, where you’re just kinda…there, for company or whatever she was to Dad. She wants to be a Wyn, where she’s half of the dynamic of a relationship, with emphasis on the word dynamic.”

This was supremely annoying.

Because it told me that Remy was right all those years ago, and at least one of our children learned that strength and passion and knowing your own mind and asserting it were essential to any relationship being healthy.

“So. You? Dad? What?” she prompted.

“Your father and I are divorced, Manon,” I said gently.

“Yes, I know that. So why was he sitting on your chair and holding you at his side?”

“It was an emotional evening.”

“Mom.”

She wasn’t buying my crap.

“Just because we’re divorced doesn’t mean he’s quit caring about me, honey,” I told her. “And something had upset me before I showed at his house, he knows me well, he noticed it, and he was concerned about me.”

This was my guess, but I was sticking with it like it was etched in stone.

“What upset you?”

“I’d exchanged words with Bea.”

“Good,” she said sharply.

Wow.

Manon too?

“What do you mean, ‘good?’” I queried.

“Mom, she’s your friend and she can sometimes be sweet, but only if you have a vagina. Mostly, she’s bitter. Jordy left her and she swallowed that pill whole. It was like she joined a cult. The bitter cult. And she’s a zealot. Every man is Jordy for her, even though I’m now seeing why Jordy said, ‘This is for the birds, life’s too short. I’m outta here.’ I mean, like I just said, a woman doesn’t always have to make things roses in a relationship. But Bea’s always been a pretty negative person, and that’s a serious drag.”

I had, for a long time (or until recently), wondered why Jordy had called it quits.

They had never been lovey-dovey, but as far as I knew, he hadn’t cheated, she hadn’t either, he didn’t have some other issue like an addiction or something, neither did she. I didn’t even know they were having problems.

He was a quiet guy, but when he talked, he had a wry sense of humor and an interesting, if twisted way of looking at life that I found fascinating, but he was also a nice guy.

Bea had never demonstrated devastation at this loss.

She’d been angry and self-righteous and stayed that way.

“So you and Dad are a no go,” Manon noted, and she didn’t quite hide the dejection in her voice.

“We are, Manon, I’m sorry.”

“And this thing we’re all meeting for tomorrow? And by the by, I’m staying at yours in case bitchface isn’t out of Dad’s place yet, and I’ll be there around ten.”

“This thing for tomorrow is your dad’s way of making sure Yves knows we’re his safe haven no matter what.”

“But he’s inviting us to yours, not his?”

She was as confused as me.

“Maybe he’s concerned about the situation with Myrna,” I suggested.

“Maybe.” She wasn’t buying it.

I wasn’t either, but I didn’t share that.

“Listen, honey, as much as I love talking to you, I’ve got a girls’ night tonight.”

“Is Bea going to be there?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Yes.

How I missed what everyone saw, I didn’t know.

Maybe it was just that I loved Bea, and I didn’t want to see it.

“You want anything special for tomorrow?” I asked.

“You feel like a trip to Bosa in the morning?”

“Cinnamon swirls or buttermilk?”

“Both.”

Yves would love some donuts too.

“They’ll be waiting for you.”

“Love you, Mom.”

“Love you too, my gorgeous girl.”

We hung up, I fixed my eye, finished with my hair, got dressed and then wandered into my bedroom.

But I didn’t do what I needed to do: wander out and into my car to go to Kara’s.

For some reason, I went to the French doors that led to the private, master suite patio, and looked out to the backyard.

My lot was even bigger than Remy’s, on a cul-de-sac and maybe a ten-minute drive, at most, north from his house, off Central to the east.