Page 5 of I Think He Knows
“Steven?” I choke out. I only know one Steven who lives here…
Maybe it’s not him.
I pray it’s not him.
She blinks up at me. “Yeah,” she says, encouraged. “Steven Stanton. You know him?”
As if on cue, the door to my bedroom opens, and the very douchebag in question practically falls out of the room, his mouth attached to the brunette’s. Whose shirt is unbuttoned.
Lana’s gasp is loud enough to make them both look up.
The girl blushes and fumbles with her buttons as she flashes us a bashful grin. “Oops, ‘scuse us.”
Steven’s eyes widen in horror as they zero in on Lana Mae.
Lana Mae, who’s gone the chalkiest shade of white I’ve ever seen.
She stands there frozen for a few excruciating moments before turning on heel and bolting, clattering down the stairs.
“Lana Mae!” Steven calls after her, but the jerkwad doesn’t attempt to follow her.
For the past hour, all I’ve wanted to do is go to bed and get as much shut-eye as is possible with the hormonal rager happening downstairs. I don’t like drama, or getting involved with it. And with my bedroom now evacuated, now’s my chance. I could lock myself in there, go to sleep, and be done with this entire thing.
But I don’t.
Instead, for some reason unbeknownst to me, I take off after a girl I’ve known all of five minutes for the sole purpose of seeing if she’s alright. I chase her down the stairs and out the front door, where I find her standing on the street with her head bowed, her breathing heavy.
I approach her slowly. Put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Hey. You okay?”
Lana Mae looks up, wild-eyed.
She opens her mouth… and throws up all over my shoes.
LANA MAE
PRESENT DAY
If there’s one thing I took for granted in my old life, it was peeing in peace.
These days, my time spent sitting on the toilet is mostly shared with a nine-year-old who justhasto get into the bathroom at the exact moment that I need to relieve my bladder, and a ginger tabby who has no concept of personal space. This weekend, I also have the addition of a slobbery puppy houseguest who likes to do his own bladder-relieving on the floor.
I look up, mid-pee, from the shopping list I’m texting myself (apples, pickles, handsoap, ketchup, tampons) to where my daughter, Allegra, is standing on her tiptoes by the vanity…
Smearing Maybelline Lash Sensational on every square inch of her face that isnother eyelashes.
“Legs! What are you doing?” I squeal, jolting my knee and startling Harry Styles the cat, who has been curled up in my bare lap from the moment I sat down to pee.
Like I said, no concept of personal space.
Harry gives me a dirty look as he hops down and stalks out of the room. Allegra drops the mascara wand onto the countertop (black stain) and reaches for a white hand towel (matching black stain). Sigh.
“I thought I’d look fisticated for school today, but I don’t think it worked.”
“Fisticated?”
“Yeah. Auntie Annie taught me that word. It means kinda fancy. Like she always is with her red lipstick and stuff.” She stops wiping her face for a moment to level me with a critical eye. “You should wear lipstick, Mom.”
“Noted,” I say dryly. “And I think the word you’re looking for is ‘sophisticated’.”