Eighteen
“SOUNDS LIKE NOLA’S got herself a boytoy.”
I slam my spoon down on the table. “Helen, that’s not funny,” I say, even as she begins to laugh.
“Oh, come on, Tom,” she says with a grin. “I was just pulling your chain a little.”
“It’s damn odd—sorry, Anna—if you ask me,” I say as I plunge my spoon into my oatmeal—with blueberries this time. It’s good, but I’m eyeing Helen’s bacon like I usually eye her.
“Of course it’s odd, Tom,” Anna says as she drinks her coffee. “It’s your Mom we’re talking about.”
“Seriously, though,” Helen says, “aren’t you concerned about this?”
“Of course I am,” I say with a shrug. “But there’s not a lot I can do right now. I’m not even sure what their relationship is, exactly.”
“Do you think they’re—”
“Please, Helen, I’m eating.” I look across the tab
