Mort’s the best you can do.
He chomps on another mini pickle. I swallow the last of my wine. Time to go.
“Well, it was nice meeting you—”
“Heh. Your mother tells me you’re looking for an older man. I don’t usually fancy dumplings like you. Prefer younger ones too. But I could make an exception. Heh? I heard your garage don’t park cars. You don’t need to worry, that don’t turn me off. I’ve already parked enough cars.”
Huh?
My garage doesn’t…does he mean my uterus doesn’t work? Are the cars his babies?
He’s still looking at my chest.
I clear my throat and struggle to say something. There’s a tightness at the base of my throat. I think it’s a slew of swear words fighting to get out, wanting to tell Mort where to shove it.
Ian, my sexy, amazing boss, says that people choose how to react to situations. No one can make you angry, uncomfortable, or unhappy without your permission. So right now, I choose not to kill my mom from the sheer mortification of this moment.
Thank you, Ian. You just saved my mother.
I cough and finally manage to form words.
“Thank you. I think.” But then I shake my head. “No. Not thank you. It’s not nice meeting you. It’s not nice speaking to you. And I hope I never meet you again. You should leave.”
“Now hold on,” Mort says, and he finally looks at my face instead of my boobs.
“Leave,” I say. I fling my hand toward the hall and the front door. But I forgot that I’m holding a plate piled high with barbecue wieners. They tip and spill all over my chest. The goopy, sticky sauce runs over my skin. One of the wieners lodges in the tight space between my breasts and sticks straight up. The rest of them fall to the plastic runner covering the carpet. They hit with a splat.
Mort lets out a snort and looks at me with a disgusted sneer. “I think I had a lucky escape, heh? It’s no wonder you can’t keep a man.”
He turns and pushes his way through the crowd.
I watch him leave. Hot embarrassment washes over me.
“Gemma, you okay?” My dad has made his way over. He grabs a handful of gold cocktail napkins and hands them to me.
“Thanks Dad. I’m fine.” I pluck the mini hotdog from my chest and drop it on the plastic table cloth. I smear the sauce with the napkins and try to wipe it off my breasts.
“Who was it this time?” he asks.
“Oh. The usual. A creep with an inferiority complex and a fabulous job.” I say the last in my mom’s voice. “You know, one who doesn’t want any kids.” I try to say the last bit in a chipper voice, but my dad sees through it and gives my shoulders a squeeze.
“She means well, your mom. She wants to see you happy.”
“I know, Dad.”
He gives me a one-armed hug. While my mom has been described as flighty and excitable, my dad has always been seen as level-headed and slow to judge. My nephew Colin takes after him. I’d say I’m a mix of my parents, I’m level-headed until I get an amazing idea and then I go after it, whether it’s crazy or not.
“Why don’t you go get cleaned up. I’ll hold down the buffet table,” he says kindly.
I look down at my chest and my pumpkin dress. I’m covered in barbecue sauce, and I imagine I look like some sort of slaughtered pumpkin at a Halloween horror show.
I hurry through the room back toward the hall, I keep my head down and try to slip by the guests unseen. I can put the outfit I arrived in back on. There was nothing wrong with it. No matter what my mom said.
As I’m ducking out of the room I hear a familiar voice. It’s Mimi Butkis.
“Did you see Gemma yet? You might ask her on a date.”
Against my better judgment I stop walking.
Both Greg and his mom are turned away from me, so they don’t see me standing only a few feet away.
Greg shakes his head. “I already told you, the last thing I want to do is go out with Dimmy Gimmy. Jeremy told me the surgeon said the inside of her abdomen looks like a grenade went off. Apparently, the medical resident fainted when he saw it. Plus, Gimmy dresses like a slob, eats like a hoover, and has no self-respect. The divorce wrecked her. She’s second-hand goods.”
Mimi makes a humming noise, I can’t tell if she’s agreeing or disagreeing with her son’s assessment. “Her mother and I are friends though. Couldn’t you go on one date? It’ll make our craft nights more bearable. I can tell her I tried.”
My chest tightens.
Greg and his mom are blocking my way to the stairs. I don’t want to walk past them, but if I want to change out of my barbecue-covered dress I have to. I hunch my shoulders, put my head down and quickly walk past.