Free Turning Thirty-Twelve by Sandy James Page A

nothing would make me feel better, once a discard, always a discard.
    “Maybe he and I didn’t click. No chemistry.”
    “That’s not what you told me the other—”
    “Well, maybe I was wrong.” I was snapping at my best friend when she had done nothing to deserve it. I reined in my temper. “Maybe he didn’t feel the way about me that I did about him. Please drop it. Please.”
    I don’t want to cry in front of you.
     
    ***
     
    The phone was ringing when I walked in the door. I got to it before the answering machine took command, not even having time to check the caller-ID. “Hello?”
    “Hi, Mom.”
    Hearing my youngest son’s voice brought me some familiar comfort and reminded me I wasn’t all alone in the world. “Hi, Nate. How’s school?”
    I dropped my purse and briefcase on the kitchen table and kicked off my shoes.
    “Fine. I hate my econ prof, but I love the rest of my classes. Patrick said he told you about Parents’ Day a while back. Are you coming on Saturday?”
    “Despite the fact you didn’t invite me?” Mothers have a real problem not exercising their right to create guilt in their offspring. Nate had left a perfect opportunity dangling there like a ripe tomato on the vine. “Yeah, I’m coming.”
    Walking over to let Jellybean out of his cage, I was rewarded with a wolf whistle. I responded by ruffling the feathers on his neck the way he always enjoyed.
    “Ah, Mom. I’m sorry. I’m just so busy, it slipped my mind.”
    “It’s okay, Nate.” I’ve slipped a lot of men’s minds lately. “What time do you want me to be there?”
    “Most of the stuff for parents doesn’t start until one. But...um... Would you...maybe...come for lunch. I–I want to introduce you to my girlfriend.”
    I don’t think I’d ever heard so much naked fear in my son’s voice. Nate was in love with this girl, no doubt about it. And he was terrified I wouldn’t like her.
    I felt old at that moment, and if not old, at least middle-aged.
    “I’d love to meet her,” I said, hearing his breath rush out in a nervous gasp that made me smile. “What time? And which restaurant?”
    “Eleven-thirty. How about The Chuckwagon? Do you remember where it is?”
    I could hear the relief in his voice, and I hoped this girl was worthy of my tenderhearted son. “I remember. Is Patrick coming too?”
    “Yeah. And Kat invited her dad and her sister. You don’t mind, do you?”
    “Kat?”
    “My girlfriend. Kat.”
    “Ah,” I replied, ridiculously nodding like a Bobble-head.
    “You don’t mind if her dad comes, do you?”
    I shook my head, and then realized I was doing so. Old habits die hard. “No. No problem. Do you need anything, Nate? Money?” Condoms?
    Having watched Nate grow up mimicking almost all of my own mannerisms, I smiled when I realized he was probably shaking his head too. “Nope. I’m good. See you Saturday, Mom. Love you.”
    “Love you too.”
     
    ***
     
    The Chuckwagon hadn’t changed in twenty years. It was still the rundown converted warehouse just a few blocks from campus that served home cooking. The place had all the ambiance of a grocery store, but if tradition held, the servings would be huge, cheap, and delicious. I decided to skip the diet for the day.
    Since neither Nate nor Patrick was outside waiting, I got out of the bright light to spare my skin a few more sun-damaged wrinkles. As I opened the door and stepped inside, I whipped off my sunglasses and came face to face with Mark and Carly Brennan.
    Son of a bitch.
    “Jackie? Wh–what are you doing in Bloomington?” He appeared as surprised as he sounded.
    Carly just looked confused.
    About a million sarcastic replies crossed my mind, and about a million more rude ones gave the sarcasm some heavy competition. They ended up canceling each other out. “I’m here to see my sons. It’s Parents’ Day.” I shoved my sunglasses in my purse, desperately wishing life had a rewind button that could take me back several