Mine, Sandra’s, Molly’s …
“Don’t do the laundry, you’ll only mess it up,” he muttered, mimicking his wife. She must think I’m really useless… Oh, and what’s this?
Red lace bordered shimmering black satin. Doubt creased his brow. I don’t recognise this one… is this why Sandra didn’t want me to do the laundry?
“I just can’t believe he did this!”
His father ears pricked up at Molly’s distressed tone. He tiptoed to her partly open bedroom door. She stood facing the quivering oak trees, her adolescent silhouette backlit by the noonday sun.
“And he said he loved me! … He seemed to mean it … I am NOT naïve!”
He hesitated. This sounds like a mother-daughter thing.
“I slept with him and I still got dumped!”
The words slammed into him like a rippling sonic boom. I’ll kill the little maggot.
“Oh, go to hell Jennifer!”
Molly whirled around, hurling her phone on the bed. Glistening eyes caught her dad’s figure in the doorway and she stiffened.
“How long have you been standing there?”
Lie. Lie for all you’re worth.
“Just a second … why?” God, I hope that was convincing.
Molly cocked her head to one side, “Is that my, uh…?”
“Wha-,” he cut himself off. Of course, not my wife’s but my teenage daughter’s. He gingerly attempted to fold the slinky fabric, failed miserably and plopped it on Molly’s desk. He stepped away as if it were a bomb.
“What?” Molly asked.
You’re staring. She knows you heard.
Tell her she’s beautiful and he’s an idiot. Tell her you love her.
“If you like,” he lowered his voice to a deep, rumbling tone, “I could have him murdered.”
A joke? Really?
In the ensuing silence, he was rewarded as a smile crept over Molly’s face.
(c) Rachel Smith