And now my mother is setting me up?
The waitress came up, interrupting them and handing him the check. He gave her his card, then turned back to where his mother was boring holes into him with her gaze as Deb grinned.
“Perfect! Want to give me your phone? I’ll text you my address,” she said.
Old school as it was, he’d planned on just jotting the address down on a napkin, or even asking Riley for it. Feeling uncomfortable, he nodded, unlocking his cell and handing it over. She happily texted herself, rather than simply putting in her contact info—which meant she had his number now too. “I’ll get in touch with you tonight,” she said. “It’ll be fun!” Then the waitress came back with his card. He signed it as she ushered Deb to a small nearby table. Deb waved goodbye.
He got his coat and walked his mother to his truck. Seeing her carefully negotiate her way into the passenger seat, he felt a pang.
“Why don’t you go out with Deb?” his mother pressed when he got into the driver’s seat. “She’s nice. Not much younger than you. Regular churchgoer . . .”
“I’ll think about it,” he said, rather than have some kind of long conversation that involved her picking apart his admittedly small romantic history.
“You’ll ‘think about it,’” she echoed, then made a grumbling sound. “I’m old, not stupid. You think I don’t know you’re just telling me what I want to hear?”
“No, I don’t think you’re stupid,” he said, forcing himself to be patient and compassionate. He loved his mother, he really did, but he’d never gotten along with his parents. Not the way his brother, Davy, had. “And I’m going to her house Saturday. We’ll just see how it goes.”
“Hmph.”
He dropped her off, then settled her in, making sure that all the doors were locked. She shooed him away “to play your games with your little friends,” and while he felt a tiny bit offended at her characterization, he hurried back to the house he rented, grateful as always that he’d chosen to rent someplace else rather than try to live with his parents when he’d first moved back to the Falls. Even though he’d had to drive over there every day, he was glad to have a place where he could unwind, or break down if need be. If working in hospice had taught him anything, it was how invaluable having clear boundaries was, even more so when he was essentially “treating” family. He needed a separate, safe space to retreat. He needed time to himself, and he needed some peace.
Tonight, he fired up his Alienware and quickly navigated to Blood Saga Online, just a little late. He winced, hoping that the guys hadn’t scared Bogwitch off or, worse, started the quest without him. That would be a chaotic disaster.
He opened their guildhall, the place where they started their adventures and were able to trade gear. To his shock, they were all there, and from what he could see, they were all chatting happily.
OtterLeader: Sorry I’m late. Stuff came up.
BigDorkEnergy: Boggy hooked us UP
GandalfTheGay: I have been trying to get this staff for fucking ever
TheFerocity: no fuckin way
TheFerocity: ur just givin away this shit?
Aiden frowned. What was happening here? It looked like the team had gotten a substantial amount of gear—good gear, at that. And most of it had come from Bogwitch?
BOGWITCH: I played a lot and got a lot of gear I couldn’t use.
BOGWITCH: I am a quest treasure hoarder lol
Aiden grinned. If there was a way to this group’s heart, it was offering . . .
His mouth dropped open.
OtterLeader: You’ve got 2 Crystal Swords of Savagery???
BOGWITCH: Sure. Want 1?
Aiden grinned.
OtterLeader: grabbyhands
Suddenly, there was one of the legendary quest items, right there in his inventory.
BigDorkEnergy: We are going to kick ASS in the Citadel!!! Fuck ya!!!
Aiden couldn’t argue. He sent Bogwitch a quick private message.
OtterLeader: Really, thank you. You don’t have to do all this. This is hundreds of thousands of coins worth of stuff.
BOGWITCH: shrug I have lots of coin and lots of stuff. I used to play a lot more than I have recently. With my son. It was kind of our thing.
He wondered what had happened to her son. Had he died? She certainly sounded sad, but he didn’t know her well enough to want to pry and maybe cause more pain. It also sent a pang of jealousy through him. His own mother . . . he knew that she loved him, and that ultimately, she wanted what was best for him. The problem was, it was what she thought of as what was best for him, which wasn’t necessarily what he wanted at all. She used to be more passive aggressive about it, nudging him, making “helpful suggestions”—until the blowup that happened after Sheryl. Now, she was far more direct.
And, if he was honest, far more disappointed.
OtterLeader: You’re a good mother. I can tell.
BOGWITCH: I’m just lucky, he’s a great kid. You ready to battle?
He got the feeling that she was uncomfortable with the praise. He could almost imagine the grumpy, crotchety expression—one that probably hid a gooey interior. She was the type to tear a strip off you for talking shit, but then give you a million-coin quest item and act like it was no big deal.
He immediately felt better.
OtterLeader: All right, gear up, then let’s get going.
They went about getting their healing potions and their armor, then put away anything they could to free up carry space. Then they went on the mission.
It was, in a word, epic. The guys liked playing with the new gear and used it to good effect, cutting through enemies like a blowtorch through butter. The bosses were still a challenge, and the last boss, the Hierophant, was an absolute dickpunch. But he learned a few things.
When tempers flared （read: BigDorkEnergy）， Bogwitch tended to get him to calm down . . . not by catering to him but with a quick, sharp retort and some applicable advice, even if it was “quit fucking around and notice the traps, dipshit” even as she tossed re-gen potions at him. Things that would’ve pissed off Dork if one of the other guys said it tended to go smoother when she did. Probably because he’d talked to them all offline, making sure they were nice to her.
“She’s an old woman,” he’d pointed out via private messages. “And she’s got skills, so be nice, okay?”
Needless to say, between the fact that she’d essentially given them an early Christmas with all the gear and the fact that she was probably an octogenarian woman who swore like a trucker while killing bad guys like a Terminator, the guys had rallied and now looked at her as their own personal mascot.
After they’d trounced the Hierophant and gleefully split the loot, he sent one more private message to Bogwitch.
OtterLeader: Thanks again for everything. And for tonight. You really kicked ass.
BOGWITCH: Ok. No worries.
OtterLeader: For real—it meant a lot.
There was a pause, then a flurry of typing.
BOGWITCH: You’re not hitting on me, right? Because I will punt you into the sun.
He let out another bark of laughter. He could hear the amusement in her tone.
OtterLeader: You keep giving me legendary loot, I might consider proposing.
BOGWITCH: Right into the sun!
OtterLeader: Nighty-night, snookums