“Your mom is opening for Bette Midler. Bette Midler!”
I shrugged. Sure, I was gay, but I was also twenty. If it was Britney, fine, I might’ve been jumping up and down—had we not been in the configuration we were currently in—but Bette merely earned that aforementioned shrug. “Good for her?”
He slapped my chest. “You came out of your mom. Your mom is opening for Bette. I’m sitting on you. Three degrees of separation! I’m three degrees of separation from Bette Midler!”
“Gross, for one,” I said. “And, for two, I didn’t know you were such a big fan. It’s only Bette Midler.”
Again, he slapped my chest. “Stop saying that!” He then leaned over and reached for his cell. “Call your mom. Get us tickets. You can recharge. I can see Bette. Win/win.”
I was staring up at him and smiling. I was alre
