Page 8 of The Irresistible Distraction

As usual, I bite back a host of retorts: That for most of us, making money isn’t optional. Monetization is necessity, not choice.

“It felt like a good use of my business degree.” It’s only as I ring him up that I notice Sexy Tourist is one of those people who uses initials on his credit card.

Adeline’s features crease in confusion. “Business? Was that what your associate’s degree was?”

Adeline says associate’s degree the way someone else might say roach-infested maggot vomit, because she doesn’t know better.

“It was the degree I could afford,” I say, hoping to convey some semblance of dignity.

“One of three, didn’t you say?” Clark’s voice is a soothing murmur, even though he’s inexplicably turned away from us while signing the receipt, a guarded gesture I normally see from older generations, who believe signatures are easily stolen.

“Yes.”

My ex-mother-in-law’s tone is incredulous. “You never told me you finished three.”

I did, of course. While I don’t normally volunteer information to Adeline—the line between what my ex-in-laws want to know versus feel entitled to be told has always been difficult to navigate—Sebastian openly brags about my degrees. But there’s little to be gained from arguing with her, so I shrug while making a hopefully ambiguous hmmm sound.

Reaching for a to-go bag, I start wrapping Clark’s photos: an orb weaver who lived on our back porch and a lotus I photographed while supervising a Huntington Library and Gardens field trip.

“Exposure therapy,” Clark tells me with a mischievous grin. “And the lotus is for a friend of mine.”

The need to ask whether it’s a female friend is almost overwhelming, but instead, I wrap the framed photos quickly and hand him the bag.

“I hope they like it.”

He’s careful not to touch me as he takes the bag. “I’ll definitely be coming back for more of those cookies, even though this is not a body that normally eats cookies.”

I try not to flush or think about how closely I was held against that body. “They’re baked fresh twice a week, Wednesdays and Saturdays,” I tell him, knowing he might never come back, that it’s just one of those things people, tourists especially, say.

He smiles, eyes twinkling, the one dimple making a devastating reappearance, and then a moment later, he’s gone, pushing the swollen door open easily.

It’s Adeline’s sharp voice that brings me back to reality. “I’m glad you’re late again. We’re overdue for a chat.” Only after she has my attention does she take a deliberate, slow sip of her coffee. “You’re certain you put in three Splendas?”

“Yes.”

She shakes her head, disbelieving. “Are you happy here, at the diner?”

My eyebrows rise a little. Adeline almost never asks how I’m feeling. This feels like a trap. “Why wouldn’t I be happy?”

She looks around at the mostly empty snack displays, the two blank spots on the photography wall. “The flavored popcorn, the cookies, now the photographs. Each time I come in, you’ve added something new to jazz things up. Is the diner performing that poorly?”

Though we’re naturally at the mercy of the ebb and flow of tourists, I have enough regulars to more than survive. Beyond that, I’ve saved enough to start at least one of my renovation projects, when there’s time. “We’re surviving.”

Another painfully slow sip. “Are you hurting, financially?”

And again, I sense the edges of a trap. Do I have savings? Of course. Are they hard-fought? Absolutely. In part because of the bargain I’d agreed to at age eighteen.

Because even then, I should have known Arthur, seasoned lawyer that he was, would prioritize his son, Jesse, at the cost of his grandson, Sebastian. “Jesse contributes the agreed-upon child support, which Arthur helped calculate. By definition, that ought to be enough to subsist on.”

This time, Adeline catches my barb. “Surely you’re not suggesting there’s anything inappropriate about the amount Jesse, as a medical resident, contributes to a son he rarely has time to see?”

“That is not what I’m suggesting.” My voice is steady, and Adeline’s gaze remains locked on mine, as if we’re both deciding whether to let this go for now.

“If you’re now discontented with the agreement you signed, you’re welcome to broach the topic formally. We knew you couldn’t afford representation, then. And Arthur struggled to maintain moral and ethical boundaries while balancing your needs against Jesse’s.”

“And Sebastian’s,” I remind Adeline, as my mind fixates on the appropriateness of the word boundaries.

The Williamses have always had a clan mentality: Us versus Them. In this case: Me and Sebastian against her, Arthur, and Jesse.