Page 105 of Cash

I glanced over my shoulder. Cash stood at the rear of his motorcycle, wearing a smile like I’d never seen.

He cleared his throat. “I said, Nice to see you, ma.”

“I heard ya when you said it the first time.” She waved her hand in his direction without so much as turning around. “I saw you eight months ago. It sores my eyes to look at ya.”

She led me to the kitchen and poured me a cup of tea while Cash unpacked our things. Before Cash so much as stepped through the doorway, she’d taken me on a tour of the home.

She pointed into the downstairs bedroom. Posters of motorcycles were pinned to the walls, and the few places that were free of posters were covered with stuffed fish.

“Was this his room?”

“The only room on this floor. Did he tell you why he moved into it?”

“I guess not.”

“So that manky slag Ashley could slip through the window,” she said. “She broke his heart, that one.”

“I don’t know what that means,” I said. “Manky slag.”

“She’s calling her a dirty whore,” Cash said from behind me.

“I was being proper,” Erin said.

“You were talkin’ shit, ma. She did not break my heart.”

“I’ll put that bar of soap in your mouth, Brock Cashton, and don’t think I won’t. You might be thirty-one, but your still my son.”

“Sorry, ma.”

I laughed to myself at the thought of Cash not cussing.

We went to the kitchen and sat at the table, Cash on one side of her, and me on the other. With her arms outstretched, she held each of our hands. Her eyes drifted back and forth, between us.

“What?” Cash asked.

“You’d make beautiful babies.” She looked at Cash. “I’m not getting any younger, you know.”

I would love to have a child, but knew it wasn’t possible.

“We’ll see, ma. First things first.”

She lifted my hand. “She needs a ring on this finger, you eejit.”

Cash scowled. “Enough with the eejits, ma.”

She glanced around the kitchen. “I got so carried away with looking at this fine thing, I forgot to feed you. Let me get something.”

I stood. “Can I help?”

She smiled. “If you’re willing.”

I could listen to her speak all night. Her Irish accent made even the simplest words sound multifaceted. Together, we prepared a meal of potatoes, bacon, cabbage, and onions. According to her, it was one of Cash’s favorites.

While she formed the mixture into patties and fried them in a skillet, I made two loaves of the bread Cash had grown to love.

“So, your love is shoes, is it?” she asked as I pulled the bread out of the oven.

“No. Shoes is what I can afford. Everything’s expensive in Southern California.”