Objects of My Affection Read Online Free PDF Page B

That’s the one I’ll hit her with.
    â€œI wanted to say good night.”
    â€œGood night.”
    This is where I should leave, but I find myself lingering. A portrait of a morose young girl who vaguely resembles Marva stares at me. It’s done in the style I recognize as hers: realistic, yet exaggerated, as if she purposely colored outside the lines.
    Marva stops writing. “Yes?” Although typically a positive word— yes! —the way she says it is better translated as “Why are you still here?” Or, more accurately, “Don’t be here.”
    I turn to go but then stop myself. “The painting behind you, is that a self-portrait?”
    â€œOnly egotists do self-portraits.”
    â€œSo, then I take that as a no?”
    She graces me with what could almost be called a smile—it’s achieved mostly through a lift of the eyebrows rather than a curve of the lips. “Touché. Now good night.”
    This time I take the hint and leave, although not without first telling Marva that we’ll start tomorrow morning at ten o’clock sharp. She’d better be ready to roll up her caftan sleeves and get work done because I’ll be cracking the whip something fierce. Okay, maybe I only confirmed the time and stopped there, but I believe the rest was implied.
    I get to the bowling alley in time to help Heather’s husband, Hank, carry pitchers of pop from the concession stand. It’s one of those new, glossy bowling alleys with the high-tech video screens and pulsing music. Tonight is eighties night, and Cyndi Lauper is reminding us how girls just want to have fun.
    â€œI can’t believe DJ is eighteen. I’m the father of an adult,” Hank says, setting the pitchers down on a table next to a cake and a pile of gifts. “I’m barely an adult myself.”
    â€œThey grow so fast when you feed them,” I say. “So where is everybody?”
    â€œThe kids are bowling. The moms are hanging by the bar.”
    â€œWho’s here?” I keep my voice nonchalant, but Hank picks up on my tension. Or more likely, Heather has prepped him, reminding him of how I’ve been avoiding people for a reason. She must have told me a dozen times I didn’t have to come tonight, but that’s like when people invite you to Tupperware parties and say you don’t have to buy anything. They never mean it.
    â€œDon’t worry, we kept it small. Let’s see … DJ invited Zac, Nicholas, Samantha, and of course Crystal. So that means mom-wise we have—”
    â€œMy worst nightmare?”
    â€œNah, merely a few of your dearest, closest friends.” He chucks me under the chin. Hank is an ex–college football player, gone soft over the years, and the master of the gentle gesture, having one too many times not known his own strength. “You’ll be fine. Nobody’s going to say anything about it.”
    It being Ash. It being rehab. It being the talk of our suburb for a while, although never to my face.
    Hank excuses himself to go drag little Abigail away from the teenagers before she picks up any new words. I mentally dress myself in armor and head to the bar area.
    As I approach, Mary Beth Abernathy gives a wave from the boothwhere they’re sitting. She’s in her uniform of mom jeans, sneakers, and a sweatshirt advertising one of her kids’ sports teams—her bangs a tad too short, as if she cut them herself. “Why, look, Heather, here comes your roommate now!”
    Impressive. She didn’t even give me time to get a drink before she managed to embarrass me about having to bunk with Heather’s family.
    Heather rolls her eyes. She doesn’t like Mary Beth any more than I do, but their sons have been best friends since grade school. They’re practically in-laws.
    Janie—who is the mom of DJ’s girlfriend, Crystal—pours a margarita from a pitcher on the table and hands