I looked anywhere but him, took a sip of my refreshing, delicious drink and tried to get my wits about me after experiencing the drama with Mitch which included a side order of my Mom at the same time trying to figure out a way to do anything but tell him about my Mom.

Unfortunately, I did this with my left hand resting on the table. Therefore, I found my left hand stretched halfway across the table and my fingers laced with Mitch’s.

Mitch’s fingers laced with mine felt nice. And not a little nice.

A lot.

Damn.

I put my glass down and looked at our hands. Then I looked at Mitch.

“I don’t think –”

His fingers squeezed mine. “Tell me.” His voice was very firm.

I decided first to try bitchy. “It’s really none of your business.”

He shook his head. “I know you’re filtering this information so you don’t have to deal with it so I’ll keep tellin’ you until it sinks in. Mara, you’re gonna be in my bed and my life, and when you get a new one, I’m gonna be in your bed and your life. And, cluein’ you in, you might take a good look at things and notice you’re already in my bed and my life. So, since I intend for that to keep goin’, I’m gonna have to know about your life. Not what you’ve built for the now but what you survived to get to the now. So,” his fingers gave mine another gentle squeeze, “tell me about your Mom.”

I glared at him then informed him, “You’re filtering information too, such as me explaining about boundaries and then me telling you that you have to move on.”

“I’m not filtering, sweetheart. I’m ignoring that shit because it’s whacked. Now, tell me about your Mom.”

“It’s not whacked,” I replied.

“It is,” he returned then pushed, “Tell me about your Mom.”

“It is not.”

Yet another finger squeeze and then, “Mara, baby, tell…me…about…your…Mom.”

My head tipped to the side and my eyes narrowed. “You’re very stubborn.”

“Tell me about your Mom.”

“And annoying.”

“Tell me about your Mom.”

“And bossy.”

“Mara, your Mom.”

“And you can be a jerk.”

“Mara –”

I rolled my eyes and said to the ceiling, “Jeez, all right, I’ll tell you about my Mom.”

This was not me giving in. This was my new strategy. I decided that maybe he should know about my Mom. Maybe, even though it was clear he was always alert, very insightful, often figured me out and already knew a lot about me, maybe he was somehow blind to my Two Point Five-edness.

So I decided to let him in on it.

I took another sip of my frizzante, put the glass on the table and launched in, not looking into his eyes, finding anywhere to look but him as I re-colored the Mara he thought me to be.

“My Mom’s a drunk. So’s Aunt Lulamae. Functioning alcoholics. They smoke, cigarettes and pot. They carouse. They party. They’re both in their fifties now and even though I haven’t spoken to or seen either one of them in over a decade, except our loving reunion at the store, I suspect this behavior hasn’t changed.”

“It’s not good your Mom and aunt are functioning alcoholics, Mara, but none of that is really that bad,” Mitch pointed out.

My eyes went to his beautiful ones. So brown, so warm, so deep. Fathomless. I wanted to drown in them, get pulled under, swim in his gaze for the rest of my life.

Instead, I pulled in a soft breath, steeled myself and I gave to him all he needed to understand why he was not for the likes of me.

“My first living memory is watching my mother ha**ng s*x on the couch in our trailer with a hairy truck driver.”

Mitch’s gaze grew intense.

“She knew I was there,” I added.

Mitch’s fingers spasmed in mine.

“She didn’t stop even after she saw me,” I continued.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” Mitch murmured.

“I walked out when she was giving him a blowjob and I finally wandered back to my room when he started doing her doggie-style.”

Mitch’s jaw got hard.

“I remember every second,” I whispered. “It’s burned into my brain.”

Mitch sucked in breath through his nose.

“I was four,” I finished.

He closed his eyes. I thought I knew what this meant so I ignored the brutal clutch that suddenly had hold of my heart, squeezing the life out of me. I looked away and took another sip of my drink.

Keeping my eyes on anything but him, I went on, “I don’t know who my father is because my mother doesn’t know who my father is. I grew up in a small town. Everyone in that town knew about Mom and Aunt Lulamae so everyone in that town thought certain things about me. Parents, kids, teachers, everyone. Parents and teachers thought I was trash and they treated me like trash. Not even when I was young did they treat me any differently. I was tarred with her brush from the minute I entered this world and I knew nothing different every breath I took in it. Parents didn’t let their daughters come over to my house or me go over to their daughters’. Teachers barely even looked at me. When I got older, boys assumed I was easy. This was not fun because it was difficult to convince boys who thought you were easy that you were not easy. Therefore after a few very not fun dates, I stopped dating. I had two friends, my cousin Bill and a girl named Lynette whose parents were the only parents in town who were nice to me.”

When I took in a breath, Mitch urged on another finger squeeze, “Look at me.”

I didn’t look at him because I was certain what I would see. And I didn’t want to see it.

But I did keep talking.

“Aunt Lulamae had been married to Bill’s Dad but they got divorced and he stuck around town. Their divorce was bitter and it was ugly. And before they split up, it was loud and their dysfunction and hatred played out for everyone in town to see, in their trailer, outside their trailer, in Mom’s trailer, in bars, on sidewalks. And after they split up, it went on just the same. Bill’s sister has another father but he didn’t even stick around to see her born. Bill had the same reputation as me and, when I was young, I felt it was the two of us against the world so I latched on because I needed somebody. As he got older, he responded differently than me to all that was happening. He was a couple of years older than me and I got caught in that because I was young and stupid. I didn’t realize that what I was doing was solidifying in everyone’s mind that I was just like Melbamae and Lulamae Hanover. But it was more. Being with Bill meant not being around them and I hated to be around them so I escaped any way I could.”