Into You Series: The Complete Collection

12. Grace

CHAPTER 12

GRACE

“ I ’ve got it, I’ve got it!” my mom sing-songs.

“There’s no way you already know it,” I groan.

My mom likes the game Clue. My mom is good at the game Clue. My mom. Never. Loses. Clue. But the end result is always fascinating to Ramona. I don’t know how Mom can always guess within the first few rounds what the winning answer to the game will be, but her guess of “Professor Plum. With a rope. In the kitchen.” is identical to the three cards hidden in the middle of the board, eliciting a roar of applause from Ramona and signifying the end of the game. My mom is the victor once more.

I try not to grumble. In all honesty, it’s less about losing and more about the fact that I unsuccessfully tried to distract myself from my pseudo-dinner date with Joe tomorrow night.

I’ve thought more about it, and I have two simple motives.

Number one: Get my piece of the house pie. I put enough work into remodeling that place to get my fair share.

Number two: Do what my mom told me to do and give him a piece of my freakin’ mind.

I still haven’t exactly practiced what I will say.

How dare you cheat on me?

How’s the single life going for you, doofus face?

It’s still a work in progress, but something needs to be said. And it will be anything other than, “Please get back with me.”

I’m stronger than that.

“Ooh, Professor Plum with a rope.” Ramona shimmies her shoulders to me. “So naughty.”

“Professor Plum seems like a fine gentleman,” Mom says, picking up the cards and stacking them back together.

“A fine gentleman with a rope,” Ramona replies, arching an eyebrow.

Mom shakes her head and chuckles.

“What happened to just plain sex?” she says, stopping to look up as if reminiscing. “Why do we need to throw in all this … this”—she throws her hands around—“stuff? Like rope and … vibrators, or whatever.”

I cover my ears and groan, curling into a tight ball on the floor. “Mom! I don’t want to hear about your sex life!” Hank trots over to lick my face and check on me. I pet him to signal that these words aren’t actually killing me—although they could.

“Aww, you’re making little Gracie all embarrassed!” Ramona coos, patting my exposed head. I swat her away.

“Sorry not sorry that I don’t want to hear about my mother in compromising positions,” I say, sitting up and smoothing back my ponytail. “Or with compromising items in said positions.”

My mom innocently laughs. “You’re telling me you don’t want to hear …”

“Nope!” I interrupt my mom and throw my hands in the air. “Nope! We’re done with this!”

My best friend and my mom laugh together.

Bunch of bullies.

We clean up the remnants of tiny plastic toy murder weapons and various cards while my mom climbs off the floor, dusts off her flower-print pants, and walks back to the kitchen.

“What new recipe are you learning now?” Ramona asks, crawling onto the couch.

That corner of the L-shaped couch has a dent exactly the same shape as her tiny butt given the number of years she’s claimed that spot as her own.

“I’m trying out avocados, I think,” Mom says, hands on her hips with determination. I now notice the pile of three avocados next to her on the kitchen island, ready to be cut.

“Isn’t that a bit … bland?” Ramona asks, her lip curling up as she looks to me for some type of backup.

“Oh, you ain’t getting my support on that, Ray,” I say. “Avocados are a gift to the culinary world. A national treasure.”

“I thought Nicholas Cage was the national treasure.”

“You can make lots of things with avocados,” Mom says. “Guacamole … and … guacamole. Lots of things! There’re recipes everywhere.” She throws her hands in the air and grabs her apron off the hook on the pantry.

When she slips it over her head and begins to tie the string, I recognize this as yet another glorious, Ramona vinyl print creation. She gave it to my mom for Mother’s Day last year. The apron says “ Cooking Mama ,” but underneath is a bear wearing a chef’s hat with a frying pan in one hand and a fish in the other.

Very typical Ramona. It’s almost as bad as the crop top she’s wearing now that has a hippo with the phrase “#Hungry” above it. I’m assuming she thought this board game night would end with a different game.

“Oh, let me look up some recipes!” Ramona says, leaning back to lift herself from the cushions and pull the phone out from her back pocket.

Flicking through her phone, Ramona laughs, leaning forward and shoving the screen in my face. “Wait, look what Wes just sent to me!”

It’s a picture of a golden retriever, tongue out, cheesing up the camera like all adorable goldens do. He’s wearing goggles and sitting behind a black-top science table with the words “ I have no idea what I’m doing,” written under it. We both laugh.

“Thought you’d like that,” Ramona giggles, plopping back into the corner of the couch and tapping her fingers over the screen.

I feel a twinge of sadness afterward. I want that. I want that type of friendship with my significant other—that type of connection.

I pull out my own phone, take a deep breath, and prepare to be not at all surprised when the screen lights up displaying no new messages. For a second, there is a red bubble indicating I have one email, but I remember it is just a glitch in the app that didn’t process the last time I refreshed it. It’s sad that I know the glitch even exists.

Then, like clockwork, as if the universe was answering my prayers for some form of human connection, there’s a new text.

Joe: Can we reschedule for Monday?

Okay, you didn’t have to be such a jerk, universe.

I can’t parse through my emotions fast enough to know whether I’m relieved that I have more time to brainstorm how I’m actually going to handle this dinner, or if I’m depressed that I can’t just get it over with.

Why couldn’t Joe ever send me pictures of some golden retriever wearing goggles? Am I crazy for wanting that type of companionship? Maybe I’m just not the marrying type. Maybe I’m the date-for-years-and-realize-I-made-a-mistake-but-I’m-still-gonna-reschedule-our-reconciliation-dinner type of girl.

“Ew, why are you texting that ball sack Joe?” Ramona asks from behind me.

“Language!” my mom calls from the kitchen.

I look behind me and Ramona is leaning forward, squinting to look at my screen.

“Nosy!” I say to Ramona, moving the phone down to the floor to cover it with Hank’s unwilling paw.

“Hank, you release that phone right now!” Ramona demands, holding out her hand.

Hank blinks and moves his paw so he can get up and browse the kitchen—probably hoping Grandma Holmes will toss something down to him.

Traitor.

Before I can react quick enough to grab the phone off the floor, Ramona barrels forward and snatches it, reading the open message and shaking her head in disbelief.

“Why didn’t you tell me you had a date with Joe?” she asks, lowering the phone and sounding hurt.

“Shame on you for not telling Ramona!” my mom yells from the kitchen.

“Thanks, Mrs. Holmes!” Ramona yells back. They air five.

“I’m just going to see what he wants,” I say. Do I sound innocent? I hope I sound innocent. “Plus, he’s rescheduling anyway, so he’s obviously not much of a stand-up guy.” I lean my head side to side. “No changes there, I guess.”

“Well, I think he’s already made it clear he’s a dickbag,” Ramona scoffs.

“Language, Ramona!” Mom calls from the kitchen over the sound of a hard knife on the cutting board.

“Sorry, Mrs. Holmes,” she groans, still looking at me.

“It means nothing,” I say.

Am I forcing confidence in this situation again? Because honestly, I don’t even know anymore. It makes me sick to think of him, so why am I even agreeing to meet up with him only to have my heart broken again?

“If it means nothing,” Ramona says, uncrossing her legs and reaching for the nail polish on the coffee table. “Then why are you going?”

“To give him a piece of my mind,” I say. “Right, Mom?”

“Sure, honey!” she calls, ever the supportive figure.

Ramona is clearly not convinced. “There have got to be hotter guys in your life than Joe the dick—I mean, dirtbag.” She looks over to the kitchen and sighs a breath of relief. My mom is too distracted to notice the third slipup.

“Sure, there’s … well …” My phone buzzes and I swear if it’s another text from Joe … But instead, it’s a meeting invite from Cameron. “My boss.”

Ramona’s eyes widen and she grins. “Your boss?”

“Grace Holmes!” Mom drops her knife on the counter and storms over to where we’re sitting. “Your boss?!”

Of course she listens in now …

You’d have thought I just said I screwed Cameron silly in the break room.

“I don’t think I need to tell you that making arrangements of any kind with your boss is a horrible idea, right?” Mom says. “You are twenty-seven. This is a new career path, and you’re just going to?—”

“No, no, no,” I interrupt, letting her take an inhale of air before continuing. Though, what do I say? I mean, I haven’t hit on Cameron but it’s not like I haven’t thought about him. By myself. In the shower. “That’s … it’s not anything. You’re right. He’s my boss.”

“Doesn’t sound like ‘ not anything ’,” Ramona says, sitting up with her feet folded beneath her.

I shove her arm. “Ray!”

“He can fire you,” my mom says, exasperated.

“You know, technically, I’m not sure he can,” I say, holding my index finger up. “That’s, like, HR or something.”

My mom huffs in response, but Ramona is playing the devil on the other shoulder.

“I don’t want to condone workplace sexual harassment, but girl, you harass that man.”

“Ray!” I almost knock over my water but catch it just in time. A little drop falls on the carpet. I groan and get up for a paper towel.

“I’m serious!” Ramona says. “An office romance, can you imagine!” The daydreaming in her voice sounds wistful.

Can I imagine it? What kind of question is that? Of course I can. I picture his large hands around my waist, taking me in the breakroom, on his desk, on the copier …

“I may have imagined it,” I say, “But I’m not about to act on it.”

“Good girl,” my mom says with a defiant nod of her head.

“Why not?” Ramona asks, almost offended by the notion of me not risking my career. “I never got the chance to sneak around and get nasty in an office.” She emphasizes the word “nasty” with a thick twang to make it seem like the word itself is a sexual act. “Let me live vicariously through you, Gracie! Describe him for me!”

“Don’t you own an office space with your husband?”

“It’s not the same.” Ramona places a hand on my arm as if physically communicating the bless your heart that’s oozing through her expression of pity.

“Just don’t be stupid,” my mom says.

I’m not stupid. Or maybe I am. I’m still agreeing to go on a pseudo-date with my ex while I’m busy daydreaming about my hot boss that I can’t stand and who also hates me.

Way to go, me.