I shook my head and shrugged.
“No idea,” I admitted. “I’ve never been very regular.”
“Then we’re probably just fine,” he said. “I don’t have anything, in case you’re worried.”
I blinked, trying to process what he said.
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
“Um, I think I need to wash my hair before I leave,” I said finally.
“That your hint you want me out of the shower?” he asked, a touch of humor in his voice.
“Yeah, I think so.”
Puck caught me close, one hand on each side of my head as he searched my eyes.
“It’s gonna be just fine, all right? You get ready, then go out and enjoy your dinner. Don’t worry about it.”
Yeah, right. No worries at all.
—
Earl’s huckleberry pie was still steaming when I left the apartment at five thirty p.m.—Regina served dinner at six, sharp, and she didn’t have a lot of patience for people who found themselves running late.
The rush was worth it, though, because I loved Regina’s cooking almost as much as I loved sex with Puck.
It wasn’t anything fancy but it was always good because Regina didn’t like to do things halfway. Nope. When she served mashed potatoes she boiled them herself, then used real butter, real cream, and a hint of salt to create something that bore no resemblance whatsoever to that shit you buy in the store.
After Earl’s heart attack, I’d talked to her about changing her ways. She’d looked at me like I’d lost my mind, declaring she’d stop using real butter just as soon as he stopped drinking and smoking. If he didn’t care enough about his own health to change, no reason she should have to eat food that tasted like Elmer’s glue.
Needless to say, real butter still sat on her table.
Tonight’s dinner was just as good as always—roast venison (compliments of Earl), veggies, potatoes and gravy, followed by the pie served warm with ice cream.
Regina and Earl never pushed me to confide in them, and I hadn’t intended to bring up my mom at all. Something about sitting at the table together always got me talking, though, and tonight was no exception. As I watched Earl cut the roast, I found myself sharing the phone calls and my afternoon visit to the Vegas Belles Gentlemen’s Club.
“I can’t believe I fell for her bullshit again,” I said, poking at my potatoes with a fork. “You’d think I’d be smarter by now.”
“We’re hardwired to love our parents,” Regina said. “It’s part of being human. Something went wrong in your mama’s wiring, otherwise she’d treat you better. That doesn’t mean you should beat yourself up for having a heart.”
“What did you think of that strip club?” Earl asked, his eyes bright. I choked.
“Nice try,” Regina said, smacking him with a serving spoon. “Our girl nearly found herself taking off her clothes for strange men. You really want a club description?”
Regina continued to mutter as Earl caught my eye and winked. I bit back a giggle—the man had always been a joker, and he loved messing with his wife’s head. She never saw it coming, no matter how many times he did it.
“Should I go get the pie?”
“Damned straight,” Earl said. “Ice cream, too?”
“Would I let you eat huckleberry pie without ice cream?” Regina asked sternly. “You may be a forgetful old fool, but I’m still playing with a full deck. Becca, come to the kitchen with me.”
I shot an eye roll at Earl, then followed her out of the dining room. Their house was nothing special—just a little two-story that was nearly a hundred years old and showed every minute of its age. Nothing felt as safe and warm as this place, though. I never had a home with my mom, but I definitely had one here.
“You do the honors,” she said grandly, gesturing toward the pie. This was a Big Deal—usually she served the pie, pawning ice cream duty off on me. “I’m proud of you. You drew a line and stopped that woman from taking advantage of you. I know it wasn’t easy.”
“It wasn’t,” I admitted, pulling out the pie server and a sharp knife. “I’m glad I did it, too. She’s already caused enough damage.”
“Damned straight.”
Regina let me lead the way out of the kitchen, carrying my pie proudly. I set it down in the center of the table, wishing it didn’t have a ring of bright purple juice and ooze leaking from the side.
“Looks great,” Earl said.
“It looks like a two-year-old made it,” I replied, my tone rueful.
“Doesn’t matter what it looks like,” Regina said. “Taste is what matters. Don’t just stand there—serve the dessert before we all starve to death.”
Earl and I started laughing, because nobody could ever starve in Regina’s house. The real danger would be waking up one day weighing five hundred pounds. I sliced through the flaky crust, the still-warm filling welling up. Regina handed me a plate and I lifted it out, going back a second time to scoop up the tiny berries that spilled out the sides.
“So,” I said casually. “I have some more news. I’m seeing someone. At least, sort of seeing someone.”
“Really?” Regina asked, deftly plopping ice cream on the plate and handing it off to Earl as I scooped a second piece. “Is it that Collins boy? He’s a good sort.”