Free AmericasDarlings by Gail Bridges

I told her how Coach Bob had yelled at us. She wasn’t sorry for me in the least. I suppose I was complaining. A little. “He has to be tough so none of you develops a big head.”
    Right.
    “But he’s kind of cute when he yells, isn’t he?”
    Sure, Mom.
    “And he’s got that funny thing where he slaps people on the butt. Guess what? He slapped me last night after dinner!”
    Okay, Mom.
    Coach Bob slaps all of us. And Benson and I like it. It seriously turns us on.
    How about that?
    Her eyes were bright. “I saw an interview with Bob right before I came to Mexico City. Did you know when he was younger he had two wives at once? A ménage a trois?” She giggled.
    My Mom giggled .
    “Yes.” I knitted my way furiously across baby Luke’s tiny sleeve. “I knew that. It’s legal now, you know.”
    “Hey. What’s marisco mean?” Mom asked, oblivious. “Marisco Palace Restaurant. Is it a name? Do you suppose Marisco is the head chef?”
    “No, Mom. Marisco means seafood.”
    “Seafood? In Mexico City? Is that a good idea?”
    She took a fried tortilla chip from the basket and reached to dip it into salsa. The silver bangles on her wrist—two of them, one for each of her children—caught the light as they dangled over the salsa. Would she add a bangle for baby Luke? Would Constance wear one for him? Maybe I ought to, after all this Olympics stuff was over. It was a family tradition. Aunts, cousins, grandmothers—all the female members of our family wore them in honor of their children.
    I turned Luke’s sleeve over and started knitting my way back again.
    A woman waved from across the room. She made her way toward us, winding around tables and chairs.
    “That’s Naomi’s mother,” I said.
    “I know,” said my mom, narrowing her eyes and looking suddenly wary. She sipped her strawberry margarita. “A bunch of us parents went out last night. She was there.”
    Naomi’s mother embraced me then turned to Mom. “I hear congratulations are in order?”
    Mom took a napkin and dabbed at her lips. She blinked and looked away.
    “You had fun last night, I hear?”
    Mom frowned, made odd jerking motions with her chin, seemed to shrink in her chair. She didn’t answer.
    “You and Coach Bob?” Naomi’s mother prodded. “Remember?”
    “Let’s not talk about it, okay?” Mom slapped the napkin onto the table.
    I looked back and forth between them. “Mom? What’s she saying?”
    “Your mom bagged Coach Bob last night!” said Naomi’s mother. “And they have big plans for tonight too, according to the grapevine!”
    Mom went white.
    I stopped knitting. “Mom?”
    Naomi’s mother looked at her then at me. She put her hands out, waving them, as if to wipe away what she’d just said. She backed up a step. “You didn’t know? Oh God, I’m sorry, Leah.” She hovered over us, fluttering, but I didn’t notice her, not anymore.
    “Mom? Is this true?”
    Mom nodded ever so slightly. “I went home with him last night.”
    I threw down the sleeve. “ Jesus , Mom!”
    “Don’t yell, honey.”
    “You’re sleeping with him?”
    “I was going to tell you myself, after the Olympics. When you could handle it better.”
    “He’s my coach! You can’t sleep with my coach!”
    Naomi’s mother scooted away, retreating as fast as she could.
    “Mom!”
    Mom grabbed a napkin and blotted Luke’s sleeve. “You got a drop of salsa on it. And yes, I can. I can fuck your coach if I want to.” She gazed at me. “ You do.”
    I stood up.
    The people at the next table tried not to stare and failed. I was, after all, famous.
    “No, Mom—I don’t fuck Coach Bob.”
    “Calm down, honey! You’re breathing too hard. You’re going to pass out.”
    “Listen to me! I don’t fuck him! I don’t sleep with him! We couple ! And only when he teaches me something new!”
    She shook her head. “It’s the same thing.”
    I snatched the sleeve from her and tossed it into my bag. “It is not !”
    “Sex is sex,