Page 92 of The Laughing Game
“Who? What?” she said, looking at Vihaal and Gideon like they were leprechauns or aliens.
Oh fuck no.
“I, uh…the men I told you about? Remember? Gideon and Vihaal…”
“I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about. Who are these people?”
Oh my God. Why? Why today?
“Hello, Mrs. Barnett,” Vihaal said. “It’s so lovely to meet you.” He held out his hand to her. “I’m Vihaal Petrovsky, and this is Gideon Foster.”
“Hey,” Gideon said, smiling at my mom while I tried not to have a nervous breakdown.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, putting a hand to her face in sudden—but very fake—realization. “Yes! Angel told me all about you both! I’m so glad to finally meet you.”
I’m going to kill her in her sleep.
“That’s very funny, Mom. Pretending you forgot. Ha ha,” I said, as the blood returned to my brain.
“Look, honey, I don’t have that many amusements anymore. I take ‘em where I can find ‘em.”
Vihaal looked at my mom like she was a rock star. Gideon put a hand to his mouth to keep from laughing, his eyes dancing with mirth.
My mom looked at the two of them like she’d forgotten her age. “My, aren’t you handsome. Both of you. Well, well.”
I put a hand to my forehead as Gideon failed to contain himself and burst out laughing. Mom smiled at him.
“And aren’t you adorable,” she said. “You’re Gideon?”
“Yes, Mrs. Barnett. It’s so nice to finally meet you!”
“Oh, please call me Bridget.”
“Okay, Bridget,” Gideon said.
My mom cackled.
“That’s not your name,” I said, my voice tired. “It’s Natalie.”
“Well, Bridget is the name I’ve always wanted.”
“Bridget is a beautiful name,” Vihaal said, throwing me a look before turning back to my mom. “May I call you Bridget also?”
“Of course.” She turned to me. “What’s in the bag?”
“Oh. I brought you some cherry turnovers,” I said, handing it over.
“Oh, damn, I was hoping for cookies. Thank you, though. You’re always so thoughtful.”
“I can bring you some cookies, Mom. I’ll bring some tomorrow.”
“Nonsense,” Vihaal said. “I’ll send some. What kind do you like? Chocolate chip? Oatmeal raisin?”
“Oh my!” My mom blushed and fidgeted with the edge of the blanket. “Well, I do like a good chocolate chip. Or chocolate chunk. Or evendoublechocolate.”
“Done. The bakery we picked these up from has a delivery service. You’ll receive some tomorrow, Mrs. Bar—I mean,Bridget.”
“Oh, my, thank you,” she said, reaching out for me.
