Bad Boy. Olivia Goldsmith
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mochaccino at Java, The Hut. Jon sat there now, finished with all work and all mothers for the time being. He waited for Tracie to show up.
He had the Seattle Times spread in front of him and was shaking his head as he read the hatchet job that Marcus had made of Tracie’s article. “You look like my Lab when ’e’s got water in ’is ears,” Molly, their usual waitress, said to Jon. Molly was a tall, slender blonde in her early thirties. A transplanted East Ender from London, she’d worked at the cafe since Jon and Tracie had begun coming there. Word was that she had been a rock bitch, one of those “successful groupies” who actually toured and slept with two important rock idols. Molly never spoke about it but Jon had heard she’d been with someone from INXS. Tracie claimed that after it Molly had made someone from Limp Bizkit hard. Whoever it was, it appeared that Molly had been dumped or had landed in Seattle and liked the town.
Rumors had run rampant that there might be a room or even a whole wing dedicated to Molly in the Experience Music Project, and that her first diaphragm was among the museum’s eighty thousand rock artifacts. Jon had never believed any of it, and the opening of the museum last June had proved the rumors false, but even if they had been true, it wouldn’t have changed Jon’s feelings for Molly. She was acerbic, witty, and warm—at least to him. If she wasn’t exactly a friend, she was a long-standing acquaintance and every time he rode by the blowsy, shimmering EMP, twenty-one thousand metallic shingles and the flapping, bright colors made him think of Molly.
“On your own, then, luv?” she asked now, though she knew the answer. Jonathan still shook his head as she indicated the empty seat with a jerk of her head. “The usual, then? Adam and Eve on a raft? Or are you going to wait for Little-Miss-Sorry-I’m-Late?” Molly asked sarcastically.
“I’ll wait,” Jonathan replied.
“Loyal, just like my Lab.” Molly left the table briefly, then returned with his favorite drink. “One mochaccino light while she takes you for granted.”
Jon looked up at her. “You really don’t like Tracie, do you?”
“Bingo! What insight. That must be why Micro/Con pays you the big bucks.”
“But why?” Jon asked innocently. “She’s so nice.”
“She’s so stupid. Thick as two short planks,” Molly said matter-of-factly as she placed his coffee in front of him, then straightened the place mat and silverware opposite.
“Hey! She is not,” Jonathan answered defensively. “In college, she had a four point oh in everything—except maybe calculus. She graduated with honors.”
“Oh. Summa cum stupid,” Molly said as she turned around, only to see Tracie looking in through the window advertising the Mother’s Day special. “I’ll leave you to it.”
A glowing Tracie entered and hurried toward Jonathan. Of course all the other guys’ eyes followed her, but she acted oblivious to that. Jon sometimes wondered whether or not she knew the effect she had on men. He quickly crumpled the newspaper and tried to hide it, pulling out the latest Little Nickel. He smiled when she sat opposite him in the booth.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said. “Nice try, but I already saw the butcher job. Marcus always cuts my best parts. Could my editor be Edward Scissorhands’ evil twin brother?” Tracie shrugged out of her coat, then picked up the menu. He knew her well enough to know she was upset, but also not to push it now. “I’m starving,” she said, then looked at him as if for the first time. “God, you look beat!”
Jon smiled and shrugged. “Today was my annual Mother’s Day Olympics.”
Tracie moved the menu away from her face. “Oh God! I was so wrapped up in my article and … everything. I completely forgot! Did you see all the steps? And how did you squeeze in your actual mom?”
“I saw mine for lunch.”
“Did she like the earrings?” Tracie’s face lit up with hope.
“She loved them!” Jon assured her. “And I took all the credit. But she sends her love. I saw stepmoms one through five before or after.”
“You actually visited the toad who wouldn’t let your dad come to your high school graduation?”
“Oh, Janet’s not so bad.”
Tracie snorted. “You have way too much compassion and too many mothers. I’ve got neither.”
Jon had to smile. “That’s probably why we’re such good friends—opposites attract. Did you miss your real mom this Mother’s Day?” Jon asked gently.
“You can’t really miss what you don’t remember.” Tracie repositioned the menu to avoid looking at him. In all the years they’d been friends, she’d never spoken of her mother’s death. Jon felt awkward, and there was a momentary silence between them. “Anyway,” Tracie said, “Laura’s at my house baking enough empty carbohydrates to stock a kindergarten bake sale.”
Just then Molly rejoined him. “So, luv. Poached eggs on toast?” she asked Jon.
“Yeah. Gotta have ’em.”
“And for you?” Molly asked Tracie, arching her brows with what seemed to Jon a bit too much attitude.
Tracie looked searchingly at the menu. “I’ll have … the waffles, with a side of bacon.” Molly didn’t write it down. Instead, she just stood there. Tracie closed the menu decisively. Molly still didn’t move. Tracie looked pointedly over at Jonathan. Molly remained standing there.
“You shouldn’t eat pigs,” Jon told Tracie. “You know, they’re more intelligent than dogs.”
“Don’t start,” Tracie warned. “Next, you’ll begin imitating the singing mice in Babe. So, you had the whole Mother’s Day trial while I had the Mother’s Day article fiasco. But that wasn’t all. Get ready to end your winning streak, because I had the worst weekend of my entire life.” She looked up at Molly, who was still standing there, looking as permanent as the red London phone booths. Tracie waited her out. “I’ll have my coffee now, if you don’t mind.”
Molly finally started to walk away, but Tracie reached out and took hold of Molly’s arm, as she always did. Jon restrained a laugh. “Wait. I think I’ll have the pancakes. The pancakes and a side order of ham.” She stared at Jon. “The hell with the pigs.” She turned back to Molly. “I mean it this time.”
Molly heaved a big sigh, obviously bored, and pulled up a chair and sat down.
“Excuse me?” Tracie said rudely. “I don’t remember asking you to join us. And I think I placed my order.”
“Admit it to yourself,” Molly said. “You want scrambled eggs and you want them dry.”
“I told you pancakes …” But Tracie wavered and then gave in to herself. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll have the eggs.”
“No chips, slices of tomato on the side.” Triumphantly, Molly showed Tracie the order was already written down, then sashayed off to the kitchen.
Tracie waited a minute to regain her dignity. Jon just looked at her. For years now, they’d been meeting every Sunday to discuss their romantic lives, such as they were. And Molly’s eavesdropping meant she probably knew the facts as well as they did. “So, my weekend has to make me the winner,” Tracie told him. “It was a social nightmare.”
“Let me guess: On Friday, Swollen Glands never got to play and Phil was pissed off and got drunk. On Saturday, the Glands did get to play, but they didn’t invite Phil, so he was pissed off and got drunk. Then he flirted with some girl; you walked out of the club and hoped he’d follow. He didn’t, so you went home. But he came back very late to your place, where he passed out in the foyer.”
“You think you know everything, don’t you?” Tracie asked, sounding half-amused and half-annoyed. “You aren’t always right.” She paused, but Jon waited her out. “Well,