Did the big win for the team overshadow it?
Was it just a game for Pat, and now that he’s got me begging, he’s going to change tactics?
I don’t like any of these thoughts. Not even a little bit. Guess my lips should be prepared to winterize again. The feral cat yowls with displeasure.
“Where are you going?” Pat asks. “You look nice.”
“I have to volunteer at Jo’s school, helping the PTO Mafia.”
“There’s a … mafia?”
I consider how to explain in Pat speak. “It’s like … the Plastics.” Referencing Mean Girls always works. He maintains that Tina Fey’s writing is simply brilliant. “And Tabitha Waters-Graves is Regina George.”
“Huh.” He rubs a hand over his jaw, and the sound of his palm over that unshaved skin makes me shiver. “Who does that make you?”
I think for a moment. “Kevin Gnapoor.”
He chuckles, I guess already over the whole Neighborly thing. “Can I come? I love a little good Plastic sabotage.”
It’s tempting. Pat would provide a distraction, fabulous entertainment, and also be the best kind of buffer between me and the PTO Mafia. Then, I imagine Tabby in her flawless makeup and skintight leggings batting her heavy fake lashes at Pat. I mean, she’s married, but I could see her wanting to upgrade from a Graves to a Graham. She wouldn’t even need to change any of her monograms. Yeah … no. Just no.
“I’ll be fine. Oh—did you see the thread on Neighborly about the game last night? They had good things to say about your coaching. Especially how you pulled Mark Waters.”
Pat’s eyes light up. “Yeah, most people seemed happy. Hard to be sad with a win, though. We’ll see if we can pull it off again. I have a long list of notes from the Bobs.”
He leans back against the counter, his shoulder brushing mine. Even in my periphery, Pat’s presence is so distracting I almost stab my eyeball with the mascara wand. Instead I end up with a black streak on my face. Fabulous. I scrub it away and turn to face Pat, taking as much of a step back as I can in the small space.
“I’ve got to go.”
I push my palms into his chest, shoving him lightly out of the way as I tell my hands not to linger. Just keep moving, ladies. Nothing to feel here. When I’m safely past him and out in the hall, I pause, turning back to face him.
“I voted for your butt, by the way.”
Pat’s expression morphs into pure pleasure. He looks like a puppy who’s been released into a room full of shoes to chew on.
“You voted for my butt?”
His voice is rich and sweet, honey dripping straight from the comb. It brings to mind lazy mornings, long hours spent wrapped up in his arms, his mouth on mine. I keep moving for the stairs. If I’m late to help out, Tabby will probably send her minions to burn my house down.
I give Pat a quick, teasing smile. “I had to. It’s the butt I married.”
Pat makes a frustrated noise, and I don’t tell him that, marriage aside, I’d vote his butt the best any day. Even if he’s going to act like THE KISS never happened.
“Good of you to join us, Lisa!”
Tabby’s voice is like the first sip of a Diet Coke, a rush of fake sugar and carbonation so strong it makes your eyes sting.
The classroom lights are off, but the room is well-lit by the big windows off to the side and a floor lamp by the teacher’s desk, where Tabby is holding court. A handful of other PTO Mafia members are squeezed into the tiny plastic chairs around the room, looking every bit her loyal subjects. Just the way good old Tab likes it. They’re all wearing the required Mafia uniform: athleisure. Based on their trim bodies, they all probably met at the gym beforehand for Hot Spin Yoga or whatever the newest trendy class is.