She winced. “Okay, maybe not,” she agreed. “But they’ve got to have something. If I go to book club, you’ve got to at least try to go to something. Agreed?”
He paused again, then sighed heavily. “Pics or it didn’t happen,” he finally said.
“I will selfie as proof,” she said, feeling a little victorious. “Now, what are you going to do?”
“Harrison and I are going to do a dungeon run on DeathCharm Vengeance tonight, I think,” he said.
“Okay, tell him I said hi. And make sure you get some sleep, okay?”
“Tomorrow’s Saturday, and sleep’s for the weak,” he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. “Love you, Mom.”
The sudden slash of missing him was like one of those cuts with a sharp kitchen knife, where you don’t even know how deep it is until it starts bleeding . . . where it doesn’t hurt until it stings like fuck.
“Love you, too, sweetie,” she said, then hung up as tears welled.
Well, this was stupid, she told herself, wiping at her eyes. She’d always scoffed at parents who talked about empty nest and how it hurt. She had made the primary aim of her life getting Kit off to school, or trade school, or whatever it took to make him a healthy, relatively happy, as-well-adjusted-as-could-be-expected adult human. But even as she felt thrilled that he was finally on his way, she missed him, so much.
And now she was committed to going to the book club, she realized with horror. And taking a selfie.
This was going to suck; she just knew it. But if it would help Kit . . .
Well. Needs fucking must.
CHAPTER 4
BECAUSE DESTINY SAYS SO
She was here because she had to be here. It would help Kit. That was the important thing. All she had to do was get a . . . selfie, she admonished herself with a cringe. Just provide Kit with some proof that she had made the effort, gone to Deb’s book club, interacted with other humans. Made a stab at friendship.
She had texted Deb, letting her know she’d be coming. She’d made a pan of chicken enchiladas—the toss-together-casserole kind, emphasizing convenience over authenticity, with cream of mushroom soup and canned chicken and a fuck-ton of shredded cheese. She was freshly showered, and her hair was combed, although frizzy from a hasty dry. Her jeans were intact. She’d drawn the line at wearing a bra, confident that her cable-knit sweater and her （now clean） fleece jacket would cover anything potentially egregious. Not that showing a nipple bump was going to kill anybody, but still, she could almost hear her Nana Birdie shrieking at the mere thought. Her grandmother had tried to instill a sense of southern social graces from the time Maggie had been unceremoniously dumped in her lap at age three.
Obviously, that hadn’t quite worked.
Bracing herself, Maggie stepped into a house that was easily seventy-five degrees and a living room full of women that she barely knew. They smiled, but their eyes assessed her. She shifted nervously in response.
“Everybody, this is Maggie,” Deb gushed, grabbing the enchiladas and ushering her over to the couch. “These smell amazing! Can I get you a drink? We’ve got margaritas!”
“Ah, no, thank you.” The idea that she’d have to hang around until the alcohol wore off made her skin itch. Then she looked around and saw every one of the other five women had a salt-rimmed margarita glass in hand. “I’m a lightweight, and I’m driving,” she clarified awkwardly.
“Maggie is Kit’s mother,” Deb added. “Remember? Harrison’s best friend, Kit. He’s just gone off to college, and she’s all alone!”
The women all started cooing “ohhh” and nodding, like this explained the sudden presence of a teetotaling stranger. Maggie pushed herself to smile. It was probably a bit ghoulish, or at least forced, but hey, she was trying.
“This is Cordy,” Deb continued, gesturing to a slightly older woman sitting on one of the couches, with short gray hair and bright, inquisitive blue eyes that seemed to pierce right into her. “We met at church group—that’s where I met Klara, as well,” she added, gesturing to a woman whose ashy blonde hair was going a barely perceptible gray. Klara held up her hand in a hesitant wave.
“Hi, I’m Patience,” a stick-thin woman with voluminous blonde hair said, shaking her hand. She had hazel eyes like Deb’s, and Maggie wondered briefly if they were related, until Patience confirmed, “I’m Deb’s cousin.”
“And I’m Lisa,” a red-haired woman chimed in. “I live next door. I also own the little general store? Down Copperhead Trail?”
“Oh, yes,” Maggie said. She went there very rarely—it was too expensive, albeit convenient. Also, she seemed to remember the woman being friendly and a little . . . well, nosy. She tended to share the business of everyone else in the small town, whether it was solicited or not. “I used to get Kit those strawberry-shortcake ice cream pops there,” she added.
Again: she was trying.
“Well, that’s all of us,” Deb said, with a grin. “Come on, come on. We were just going to eat!”
The group of them got up, putting their margaritas on the dining room table before heading en masse to the kitchen. She shuffled behind them, her brain working frantically. She really only needed a photo with Deb to prove to Kit she was social. Then, she could make up some excuse and go.
“Just you and your husband, then? Empty nesters?” Lisa, the inquisitive convenience store owner, said with a look of sympathy. “Clyde and I felt that way after Scott moved to Chewelah. I mean, it’s not that far, but it felt like it, you know?”
Before Maggie could respond, Deb quickly piped up. “She’s been divorced for a few years now. And she’s in one of those houses in the Upper Falls. She’s all by herself on fifteen acres, rattling around that big house by herself!”
Maggie cringed, stabbing at the salad. It wasn’t that big a house, but Deb did have a point. It was huge for one person.
“She doesn’t even have a dog!” Deb said as her own dog, Duchess, came wandering up. She was an older collie, very demure and posh but not above making puppy eyes and begging.
Maggie sighed as she petted Duchess’s head. “I’m really fine with it,” she insisted.
“You should come out with us for girls’ night,” Deb said firmly.
Oh, hell no. But before she could come up with an excuse, Cordy started coughing, her eyes bugging out.
“Cordy? Are you okay?” Deb asked quickly.
“What the hell is this?” the older woman said, her fork poking at her plate.
Deb turned, studying the food. “Maggie, didn’t you make those?”
The entire table turned to look at her.
“Um, yes,” she said. “They’re chicken enchiladas.”
“’Bout burned my mouth off!” Cordy made a big show of drinking most of her glass of water. “Good lord. You have to warn a woman!”
Maggie frowned. It barely had half a can of jalape?os in it and, frankly, enough dairy to douse most of the heat. She’d even drained the can before adding what she thought was a conservative amount. Normally she just dumped the whole thing in, liquid and all, enjoying what Kit called the “ring of fire” around her lips.