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Declan and his father are—”
    “Not Declan. Just his father.”
    “Spill it!” I shout, slamming my fist on the tabletop. She flinches.
    Anger feels so much better than depression.
    “We dated.”
    My turn to flinch.
    “Oh, God. We’re both sampling from the same male gene pool?”
    She frowns. “This is a bad time to make a swallow joke, isn’t it?”
    I shove my ice cream away and start to gag. Maybe another hairball from Chuckles.
    Mom primly wipes her mouth and sighs, leaning forward conspiratorially. “I dated James very briefly when I was young and single and working in Boston as a stripper.”
    “WHAT? When were you a stripper? Does Dad know?” I knew Mom worked as an artist’s assistant years ago and had memorized her stories about living in abandoned warehouses in the scummier parts of the city, but this?
    “That’s right,” she says calmly. “When I stripped the canvases for the—”
    “A paint stripper,” I say, relieved.
    She looks confused. “What did you think I meant—oh, dear!” Her laughter sounds like bells tinkling. “You thought I meant I took off my clothes for money?”
    “That’s the generally accepted definition of ‘stripper,’ Mom.”
    “When I take my clothes off for a man, I don’t expect to get paid for it.”
    I just blink.
    “Okay, maybe dinner and a movie…”
    “You’re just prolonging the inevitable here, Mom. You dated my boyfriend’s father?”
    “Ex-boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend, dear.”
    “You rang?” says a familiar voice.
    No. Not Declan. This story would be so much better if it were, but…
    It’s Steve.

Chapter Six
    “You have the most interesting conversations, Marie,” Steve says with an unctuous tone so slick you could dip focaccia bread in it. 
    “And you have the uncanny ability to appear in the most unusual places,” I mumble.
    “Like a fairy godfather,” he says with a disarmingly sweet smile.
    “Like a psycho stalker,” I retort. My mouth goes dry. I can’t stop looking at his eyes. He seems almost…appealing. But that voice. It’s like he’s being warm and sweet at the same time he’s convincing me to invest in a Bernie Madoff scheme. 
    “I like my answer better,” he challenges, the sweetness gone suddenly. I sigh with relief, because the dissonance was too hard. 
    “That’s because you’re a bit unhinged,” I say. Loudly, as I reach for my sundae and shove more chocolate goo in my mouth. “Go away, Steve.” 
    He cackles. It sounds like Dr. Evil, high on NyQuil. “ I’m the unhinged one? You pretend to be a lesbian and double-cross your billionaire ex and I’m unhinged?”
    “Double-cross?” Mom asks, curling her arm around her ice cream protectively. “Shannon double-crossed someone?”
    He pauses and stands awkwardly. If Mom asks him to join us, all bets are off.
    “She cozied up to Declan McCormick and slept with him to get some big accounts for her company. All while pretending to be a lesbian,” he declares. He’s wearing a simple white button-down shirt, khakis, and Crocs. Steve is the only man I know who insists that Crocs count as business casual wear. Sure. For nurses. 
    “How do you know she was pretending?” Mom asks. The catch in her voice makes the tops of my ears go hot. She’s up to something. I wish Chuckles were here, because I could read his frowns to understand better what Mom’s ulterior motive is. I’m on my own, though. No Kitty Radar in an ice cream shop. 
    “Because I dated her for two years and I would know if I had slept with a lesbian,” he replies, voice dripping with sarcasm thicker than the impenetrable layer of ego that he wraps himself in, like a forcefield of arrogance everyone else knows is invisible, but he thinks is Kevlar. 
    “How would you know if you slept with a lesbian?” Mom asks again. “Is a lesbian’s vagina a different texture? Do they use a code word during sex? Do they bring a U-Haul on the first date? Do they refuse to perform blow jobs on