Page 14 of The Do-Over

“Mama, sometimes I think—”

“Auld Lang Syne” chimed through the house; Mom had a fancy, programmable doorbell with songs for every season.

“That might be Brent right now,” my mother said.

“I’ll get it.” My voice sounded shrill.

Mimi muttered under her breath as I passed. “Big girl panties, honey. Big girl panties.”

Scary Perry yipped in agreement.

I answered the door slightly winded from running out of the kitchen and, okay, away from my mother. The door revealed my sister and Joel Allen, although they didn’t acknowledge me. It would have been hard to, given they were tangled in a fully involved kiss. Both my sister’s red dress and Joel Allen clung to her like second skins. I averted my eyes and counted to ten, waiting for them to come up for air.

Finally, Phee pulled away with a giggle and dabbed at her mouth with the back of her hand.

Joel Allen pointed at the awning above and winked. “Mistletoe.”

“Lucky me,” I muttered, and stepped aside for them to enter.

Joel Allen nodded a greeting as he passed me in a cloud of cologne and male ego. He had thick dark hair (plugs, Mathias said), a year-round golden tint to his skin (spray tan, Mathias said), and a perma-smile full of ultra-white teeth (veneers, Mathias said).

But the worst thing about Joel Allen was the way he treated my sister. His casual comments about her clothes or hair or intelligence or weight; the stories he told that made her the butt of the joke. She wasn’t a person to him, but a status symbol, a beautiful woman he could show off to his friends in the “I still got it” way of divorced men in their thirties.

But even worse than that was how my sister changed around him—a doting, wide-eyed girl who seemed to have misplaced her backbone.

“Persephone, dear, who is it?” my mother asked. She strode down the hallway, Pericles’s toenails tapping on the hardwood floor as he trailed behind. From the kitchen, Mimi belted out an off-key version of Dolly Parton’s “Jolene.”

I gritted my teeth at the sound of my full name. Back in college, my mother had been a Classics major, and she fancied herself a bit of an expert. The way we heard it, she and Dad had made a deal—she would get to name the girls, and the boys would be Dad’s territory. Mom had hit the jackpot. And, thus inspired by her love of ye olde Greeks and Romans, we were named Persephone and Phoebe. Even Pericles got in on the action, being Mom’s third child. Even if he was a boy.

“Roberta!” Joel Allen announced in the deep, boisterous voice he used in and out of the newsroom (also fake, Mathias said). He hugged my mother, who giggled against his shoulder.

She greeted Phee next and stood back with a smile. “You look beautiful. I’m so glad you’re here. We’re just missing Brent now. Where is he? You don’t think something happened, do you?”

I licked my lips and shifted from one foot to the other as I weighed my options. “The thing is—”

“Brent’s coming?” Joel Allen rocked back on his heels and tucked his hands in his pockets. “That’s funny. I thought he dumped Perci.”

My mother gasped. Phee sucked in an audible breath and nudged Joel Allen with her elbow to shut him up. He didn’t listen.

“Man, that break-up was brutal.” He slapped a hand on my shoulder. I flinched and edged away, eyes plastered to my mother’s face.

“I see.” She dried her hands on the dishtowel she’d pulled from her shoulder. “And everyone knows about this?”

My chest tightened as that familiar sense settled there, the one I got every time I disappointed my mother. I was twenty-seven years old and should be long past the time when I took so much stock in my mother’s opinion, but the truth was, I did. Unfortunately, her approval was slippery, and I’d never managed to capture it like my sister had.

“Heck, the entire city knows about it. He did it live on the radio. I like to listen when I’m on the elliptical. That morning show’s hilarious,” Joel Allen said.

On the list of People I Despise, Joel Allen was now numero uno. Even before Brent.

Mom’s jaw tightened with what I could imagine was outrage, anger, probably disappointment, and more than a little frustration. I watched her wearily, waiting for her to ask what I’d done. How had I screwed up again? But instead, she snapped the dishtowel in the air and hooked it on her shoulder. The sound made me wince.

“Gravy’s done,” Mimi bellowed from the kitchen. “Let’s eat. I’m salivating more than a dog at a skeleton convention.”

Without a word, my mother turned and stalked away.

SIX

“Always choose kindness.