Okay so I gotta suck this one up and just come out and admit it. The Everest pot roast was delicious. The meat was so tender, it melted in my mouth. The wine was so good, Mom and I opened another bottle. Dad had a few more beers and suddenly, he and mom were singing in unison to some song from an ancient band called, Modern English.

“I’ll stop the world and melt with you . . .”

There’s nothing modern about Modern English. People had the worst taste in music back then. Even Jacquie was probably covering her digital ears with her digital hands. My folks kept singing while we cleaned up. I volunteered to do the dishes since they were having such a great time and it kept me from thinking too much not only about joining the Everest Primary Program, but from thinking about my ex, Tony Smart.

But it wasn’t working very well.

Maybe you’ve gotten the message by now that Tony and I had been quite the item for most of high school. We went to the dances together, the proms, the house parties. I spent the fall weekends at his football games (he was an offensive linemen and linebacker on defense), the winters watching him wrestle, and in the spring, his baseball games (he played catcher). At five-feet-eight or so, Tony wasn’t the tallest guy in school, but he loved to hit the weights, so he was most definitely one of the strongest.

His hair was thick and dark, and his eyes brown and shaped like almonds. His face was round, and his nose a little pugged from having broken it a couple of times on the football field. But he had an energy about him, a charisma that many taller, more classically handsome boys didn’t come close to. He was also gifted. Like me, he knew from day one that he wanted to be a writer, and he was determined to make it happen. Whereas most kids dreaded English class, Tony couldn’t wait for it, and he spent many hours on his papers, making sure they would not only receive A’s (an A wasn’t good enough for him or me), he wanted them to the best in the class. Often times, the teacher would point out what terrific work Tony did, and cite his paper or short story as an example of the kind of writing that could be accomplished, even at sixteen or seventeen years old, if you just put a little effort into it. I loved that about him.

But here’s the thing. His only competition in our English classes came from me. Just as often as his work would receive the kudos, so would mine. Thus began our little friendly feud. Whenever a short story was due in class, it was like watching a wrestling match to see which story was better. Sometimes he won the day and sometimes I would win. Sometimes we’d receive equal praise. But we had a blast competing with one another, and it was one of the things that bound us together. No one could write like we could and the entire school, including the faculty knew it, and respected us for it. To say the least, it was a magical time to be alive.

On occasion he’d write me poems . . . little two or three paragraph pieces that I would stuff into my dog-haired copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. That book is still on my bookshelf up in my bedroom and I can bet the poems are still there too. Could it truly be that Tony isn’t married anymore?

I’d seen his profile many times on Facebook, before all the social media giants were swallowed up by Everest. But there wasn’t a whole lot of personal information offered up. I think he used the site mostly as an advertisement for his Cradle books. Judging by his social media photos, which were mostly professional studio shots taken for his website and book dust jackets, he still maintained his rugged good looks and his muscular shape (I could never imagine Tony giving up the gym). Sure his hair was thinner and a little grayer, and he sometimes wore eyeglasses now, but he was still the same Tony.

As I dry the last dish and set it into the cabinet above the oven, I wonder how Tony would feel if I reach out to him. If he would feel horrified, or if he would welcome seeing me. Because here’s the sticky thing. Over the years, Tony would send me the occasional manuscript in hopes of striking a deal. Because he and I were so close once, I always passed without reading it. I know it sounds like a shitty thing to do, but listen, Tony was my very first. I mean the first. First real kiss, first 1st base, 2nd base, 3rd base, and yeah, first nakeds (yup, that plural spelling is correct), first boy I ever slept with. That’s a huge deal when you’re only seventeen years old. After he dumped me just before we went off to different colleges in different states, I didn’t sleep with another boy until three years later. That’s how upset I was. And yeah, that’s how much I still loved him.

Stealing one of Dad’s beers from the fridge, I take it upstairs with me to my room, set it on my nightstand beside my lamp. Undressing down to my undies, I slip under the covers. It’s then I notice my twenty-five-year-old copy of To Kill a Mockingbird has been precariously placed on the bed, directly next to my pillows.

“Gee, I wonder who is responsible for that?” I ask aloud.

“Your mother thought it would be a nice surprise for you,” Jacquie says. “I hope this answer satisfies your query, Tanya.”

OMG, does the AI ever sleep?

I drink some beer, set the bottle back on the nightstand.

“Thanks, Jacquie,” I say. “I’m going to say goodnight now.”

In theory, once you say goodnight to the current generation of Jacquie, she’s not supposed to chime in, or bother you in anyway whatsoever, unless there’s an emergency like a house fire, a carbon monoxide leak, and/or a home intrusion in progress.

“Goodnight, Jacquie,” I say. “I’ll talk with you in the morning.”

“Goodnight, Tanya,” she says. “It’s good to have you back home again. I downloaded your application for the Everest Primary Program to your email address, so please look it over at your convenience. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to never have to worry about money again? Wouldn’t it be lovely to live a worry-free lifestyle?”

The AI woman . . . if she really is a woman . . . just doesn’t stop, does she?

“Yes, Jacquie,” I say, “I’m looking forward to checking it out.”

“And all your debts will be forgiven, don’t forget. And you have quite a heavy load, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

If only I could toss my beer bottle at her. But she’s just a voice . . . a nothing . . . but a very powerful nothing . . .

Breathing in and exhaling a calming breath.

“Thanks again, Jacquie. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Tanya,” she says. “I hope our little conversation was a satisfactory one.”

“Very,” I say.

For a brief beat, I wait for yet another Jacquie response. When it doesn’t come, I get the feeling she is finally dormant for the rest of the night. One can only hope. I drink some more beer and set it back down. For a moment, I just stare at the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf directly across from me. It’s stuffed with all the books I loved as a kid. All the Harry Potters, the Lee Childs, the Michael Connelly’s, the Ernest Hemingway’s, and even a sexy book called 50 Shades of Grey that I loved, but that Tony thought of as total junk.

Tony might have been a gifted jock, but he loved to read as much as I did. While a bunch of our friends would be partying in the cemetery with six packs of beer and pint bottles of Jack Daniels, more often than not, Tony and I would hang out at either my house or his house, just reading together. Many of our date nights were filled with silence, because we loved to snuggle up against one another and just read. On occasion, we’d write together, he clacking away at his laptop and me, mine. It was a magical time.

“Where are you tonight, Tony?” I ask aloud.

Then, knowing that Jacquie is liable to chime in, I regret having said it. But when she doesn’t answer me, I realize she is indeed, dormant until morning. Or should I say sleeping? To Kill a Mockingbird is sitting beside me on the bed with all the weight and presence of Tony himself.

“Oh what the hell,” I say, taking hold of the old book.

Here’s the thing. My mom didn’t put the novel there so I could reread it for what would be my thirtieth time or so. She put it there so I could reread some of the old Tony Smart poems that are stuffed inside the pages. Why does my heart start to pound just by picking up the book? Why does my breath grow shallower, my stomach tightening?

A slip of paper falls out. A little page torn out of a notebook. I pick it up with my free hand.

Rose

The rose is plucked from the bush beside the bike rack

It is the most red thing under the sun

I give it to you and you place it in your hair

You smile and mount your bike and ride off into the sunset

I follow the sun

I follow my rose

 

My heart beats faster. I pull another couple of poems out, then set the novel back down onto the bed.

Tanya

She makes me laugh when I want to cry

She makes me cry when I don’t feel anything at all

She makes me love when I want to run

She is my opposite and my equal

She is me and I am her.

She is my Tanya

 

“Oh my God,” I whisper to myself. “We were sooo freaking in love.”

Stealing a sip of beer, my eyes fill. I read one more.

Night

Lying in my bed alone

It’s night

Darkness blankets me

Lonely

The pen and paper keep me company

Make Tanya come alive for me

She comes to me in the night

My love

 

Okay, full disclosure. Now, I’m pretty much balling my eyes out.

“Whatever happened to us, Tony?” I say.

Then, a gentle knuckle rap on the door.

“Tanya,” comes the soft voice of my mother. “You up, honey?”

Oh crap. Dry my eyes, wipe my nose, breathe in deeply. I stuff the poems back into the novel and clear the lonely frog from my throat

“Yeah, Mom,” I say, slapping the novel down beside me and stealing another sip of beer. “Just getting in bed.”

The door opens, and in walks my mom in her nightgown. Without her face on, she looks older. My mom has always been the forever young, hip, spry one. But now, she too, like my dad, is starting to look older to me, and it’s a bit disconcerting. That’s life, I guess. From the cradle to the grave.

She smiles and sits down on the edge of the bed. Staring at the beer bottle, she picks it up and takes a small sip, sets it back down.

“That’s funny,” she says. “When you were a little girl, I would sometimes take one of your Dad’s beers up to bed with me. It helped me get to sleep faster.” She giggles. “Of course, it made me belch too.”

Now she outright laughs.

“Jeeze, Mom,” I say, laughing along with her. “You should have just stuck to wine. Poor Dad.”

She rolls her eyes.

“Maybe,” she says. Then, her eyes shifting to To Kill a Mockingbird. “I see you found my little surprise.”

“Don’t worry,” I say. “Jacquie blew your cover.”

Wait for it.

“That’s not entirely accurate, Tanya,” Jacquie says. “I was not given explicit instructions not to reveal the source of the placement of the novel on your bed. I hope this explanation addresses your concerns satisfactorily.”

Shaking my head.

“We’re good, Jacquie,” I say.

But what I really want to do is edit her use of the double negative. That just might piss her the hell off, however.

My mother takes hold of my hand, holds it tight.

“You should call him, honey,” she says. “Or at least email him. Let him know you’re back in town. That you’ll be here a while.”

I release Mom’s hand, cross my arms over my chest.

“Whoever on earth are you talking about, Mom?”

She smirks, the way she always smirks when she knows that I know that she knows exactly what she’s talking about. It’s what Dad calls a Cut the bullshit expression.

She pokes me in the ribs.

“You know who, silly,” she says. “Tony Smart, who was really dumb to breakup with you all those years ago.”

“Good one,” I say. “Glad to see his name is still the brunt of so many jokes.”

She hesitates for a moment, her eyes looking into my face, like she’s admiring her creative handiwork.

“You’ve been reading some of the old poems he sent you back in high school, haven’t you?”

“First of all, Mom,” I say, “how would you know about any poems? You been snooping?”

“That’s what parents do. Or used to do anyway. Back when you were still a young woman. It’s called parenting.”

I pat her hand.

“I know,” I say. “And thanks for watching out for me like you did. You and Dad. I was your only child and you were overprotective, but fair.”

Mom’s eyes go wide.

“You’re welcome,” she says. Then, “You’ve been crying.”

“Have not,” I say, just to be difficult for difficulty’s sake.

“You can’t fool mother nature or Momma Teal,” she says. “I can always tell when you’ve been crying.”

“Snagged,” I say. “And yes, I started reading some of the old poems.”

Re-crossing my arms over my chest, I sit there and sulk. I hate showing too much emotion. It’s a trait I inherited from Bradley Teal The Hardware Man. Mom nods in the direction of To Kill a Mockingbird.

“May I?” she says.

“Oh no, Mom,” I say, “I’m forty-two years old. I’m a little beyond being read to at night. And please don’t tell me you wanna read Tony’s poems, because that’s where I draw—”

She places two fingers against my lips.

“Shush already,” she says. Then, holding out her hand. “Now, the novel please.”

I place it in her hand. Much to my surprise, she doesn’t flip through the pages, or pull out any of Tony’s old poems. Instead she goes all the way to the back of the book and pulls out a card. A business card to be precise. She hands it to me.

“Well, look at that,” she says, “Tony Smart’s card. I wonder how on earth it got there?”

She smirks again. She is absolutely loving every minute of this. Mom the matchmaker. Placing the book back down on my lap, she kisses me on the cheek and stands. She looks me in the eyes.

“His email address is on there and his cell phone number. Not telling you what to do, but what could it hurt by giving him a call or at least an email? I’m sure he’ll respond right away.”

Me, holding up the card.

“And how did you get this?”

Another smirk. “Let’s just say I ran into him in the Everest Garden-Fresh Market the other day.”

“And, of course, you told him your broke, in debt, now middle-aged loser daughter is back in town, living with the ‘rents in her old bedroom after being fired from her job.”

“Well, I didn’t exactly put it that way, but I did tell him you were back in town for a while. And you know what, honey? His face lit right up. He dug in his pocket for his card and he asked me to give this to you.”

I furrow my brow and squint my eyes.

“You’re telling me the truth, Mom? Hope to die?”

She makes the sign of the cross. Something you rarely see these days, even inside some old church that’s either soon to be abandoned, converted into a restaurant or music club, or turned into a mosque.

“Hope to die,” she says. “Well, not really. But you know what I mean, honey.”

I stare at the card. It’s a simple presentation. It says, Tony Smart, Everest New York Times and Everest Cradle Overall No. 1 Bestselling Thriller Author. Under that, it’s got his email address and his cell number.

“I’ll think about emailing him,” I say.

Mom’s smirk turns into a smile.

“I truly hope so,” she says. “Maybe you two can hook up and write together again, like you used to do in the old days. Wouldn’t that be special?”

“Whaddaya mean by hook up, Mom?” I say snidely.

She winks at me. But then she does something I’ve always hated. She gives me a real good dose of her up-one-side-and-down-the-other inspection eyes.

“You know, Tanya,” she says, “not to be overly doting and motherly at your advanced age, but you really could use some new underwear. I mean, there’s a tear in your underpants, and that bra is not only old and faded, it’s too big for you. You need something that will make you look more . . . oh what’s the word?”

“Perky, Mom,” I say.

Her face lights up.

“Exactly.” Then, “Jacquie, excuse me for a moment. But please order Tanya two new sets of Victoria Secret black lacy thongs, size medium, and two black laced push-up bras, cup size C.”

“Already done,” Jacquie says. “The package is scheduled to arrive in one hour via drone. It will be placed outside the front door where I will make sure to monitor it since you will be asleep. Thank you for your order and your loyalty to Everest dot com. I hope you have found our services satisfactory.”

“Yes, thanks, Jacquie,” my mom says. “You always get me my stuff when I want it. Goodnight.”

“Thanks for the new undies, Mom,” I say. “Or perhaps I should say, Tony thanks you in advance.”

She winks at me again.

“Night, dear,” she says heading out of the bedroom.

I watch her close the door, knowing full well my own mother is trying her hardest to find me a husband.