sad and picked up the two boxes that held everything that was officially hers in the room. "Let’s go home and sort this out." He eyed Ty, "Privately."
Gwen grabbed for the boxes, too heavy to hold, she realized, as they thudded to the floor. She picked up the top one and kicked the bottom one towards the elevator, pushing it with alternating feet. "Let’s go to Hell, and you can sort out your conscience. Privately."
Mranda, with a voice sweet as anything, made a hmmm sound. "I can see why you divorced her."
Gwen pivoted and stomped one foot down, making Mranda jump back. It was the tiniest bit satisfying, but playing chicken in the hallway with a co-ed might not be the best way to show Steve she had it together.
She continued on to the elevator, set the box down on top of the kicked one, and straightened with a fake dignity no one would buy. Pushing the button for the lobby, she ignored the tool and his blonde minion, but nodded at Ty. "Thank you for the chicken."
Ty waved as if he didn’t know what other response was appropriate, and the doors closed them out and her in, sealing a day that only got worse when she realized she had to go live with her mother. And her mother lived with Max.
There were times in a man’s life when he had to stand up and be counted, when he needed to speak his truth and risk censure or criticism, even if his life would forever be altered by the ripple of change. He held the three die, felt them roll around in his cupped palm, and shook out a two, six, and three. He looked up from the losing shake to see Gwen walk into his living room. This was not one of those times.
He sighed, "I didn’t hear the door," and stood in delayed greeting as he felt the wall to wall silence of eleven women watching them, waiting to be entertained.
He could see that Gwen was studying the gathering, watched her take in the three card tables and the couch jammed against the far wall. She returned her mother’s little wave then her eyes came to rest on his chest. He wished he’d remembered the shirt. He wanted to cross his arms over his chest, man-like, but it was too late.
Gwen mouthed the words like a first grader trying to make sense of language. "Bunco Babe."
He resisted the urge to scratch himself or belch or spit on the carpet. That would be macho. Gross but macho. Not that a real man needed to defend himself in his own home. He pointed around the room. Surely she could see it was how it was done since they all wore Bunco Babe T-shirts. It was… "The shirt is like a uniform."
She looked like she was trying to keep it together but not succeeding very well. "Sure, basketball requires shorts. Bunco…" She tipped her head closer, and he could smell, or imagine he could smell, vanilla. "A bedazzled t-shirt?"
"Your mother loaned me this."
"Well, okay then. The blingy babe shirt is a loaner."
And couldn’t she just judge? She was still wearing her date outfit, the skirt, the boots, and God knew what kind of underwear. She might not be wearing any at…
He had to sit down and slow his breathing. The only good news was her clothes weren’t wrinkled. He wouldn’t have left her looking that tidy. If she’d sent his head against the headboard, she’d be as disheveled as hell. And she wouldn’t have been putting her clothes back on any time soon either. Crocodile Junior had struck out.
He felt better. Already regaining his footing, he turned to Ellen. "I don’t think we invited Gwen to Bunco night did we, Ellen?"
"Well, she hasn’t been around for a while. And she was out with that Australian boy…"
"I’m right here, Mom. And he’s not a boy. He’s a man."
Max slapped his hands on the table and the die jumped. He shook his head in apology, smiled again. "Let’s get back to the round. We’re on fives, right?"
The women watched Gwen. Ten women she’d never seen before in her life were waiting for her to say something about a guy, who, referred to as a boy could be sixteen. Her first almost real date in twenty years, and she needed to defend herself to strangers.
She’d thought coming to see Max would be awkward. Max and a Bunco party were off the charts, but what