Bowling Dreams & Cheap Wine

Chapter 11

I miss my daughter.

I have been so caught up in bowling and hoping to catch a conversation with Nate that our phone calls have turned into texts that could pass for novels. Daphne sends me photos and I follow her on social media, but it's not the same as when she walks through the front door and there's so much noise and movement that I get to be a mother again.

All this time apart brings into focus that I haven't seen my sister, Leslie, lately or visited my mother in her nursing home two hours away. Because that's the gritty truth about getting older, I'm like a bridge between my aging mother and my aging daughter. I would like to think I'm more like the Bay Bridge, than say, one of the county bridges that's falling apart but I'm in no mood to think about bridges as metaphors. I mean, who ever really is?

Now that I feel better knowing Leslie and I have a visit scheduled, I put all this funky mood into cooking for Nate. Lisa's right. I need to step up my neighbor game. I can't just let Tara show up with her baked goods and her positive vibes. I can't be the only woman not filling is refrigerator.

I channel that energy now as I'm making Nate a cream of potato soup in my Instant Pot. That's right, I got on that train, only regretting the fact that I didn't go with the Instant Pot/Air Fryer combo. The lid always smells like pot roast because I can never get that particular scent out which hopefully won't taint the potato soup.

I load the hot soup in the containers and arrange it all in a bag with fresh French bread. I'll knock on his door soon as I'm ready to leave for my evening out with the ladies.

It's rare that the ladies and I do something outside of bowling, we're all busy all the time. We are taking Tamara out, to get her mind off Arnie and the pending divorce. The evening should be a relaxing adult time at a local winery. 

Standing in front of the mirror, I put the finishing touches on my hair. There are few bonuses to entering the decade of my 40's. I finally have earned the right to not give a shit, but when my body is going through some reverse adolescence I get angry. I have a zit on the underside of my chin. A painful, cyst-like zit. As long as I don't look up all night, it'll remain invisible.

The Mams are picking me up at my house. I grab my boots and go to the couch. Halfway through zipping them up, I hear people talking in front of my house.

I open my door, thinking it's Lisa and Steph, but it's not.

Nate and Tara are talking. Their gazes are already on me. Nate looks me up and down, from my cascading hair over my shoulder to the clingy soft sweater, leggings, and boots. At least he's not seeing me dropping egg sandwich on my shirt.

"Sorry, I thought you were someone else," I comment and my gaze moves to the container in Tara's arms. She shimmies them against her chest as if she could hide them.

"I was bringing Noreen back," Tara explains and turns to Nate. "Blueberry chocolate chip muffins with crumble topping." She thrusts the container at him. "Homemade."

She just threw that word down like a mic drop. I roll my eyes. He takes the muffins—no smile. That's a good sign. "Going somewhere tonight?" he asks me.

"Top of the Hill Winery," I say confidently knowing I have the potato soup to out-do her weak attempt at getting his heart. 

"That place is fantastic," Tara comments like we're best friends, but keeps her sights on Nate. "Have you ever been?"

"Once," he says without elaborating.

Tara reaches out and touches his shoulder. "We should go sometime. The girls can run around."