Then…

Then…

Then Merry would be around all the time.

And she’d finally be happy.

Chapter Nine

Hangin’ in There

Cher

Wednesday Morning

I was in my living room, vacuuming, an activity that for some reason in a house with only a thirty-four-year-old woman and a ten-almost-eleven-year-old kid living in it, had to happen more than once a week.

As was my way, to take my mind off something that was not my favorite activity, not to mention it was right then officially a week (and a couple of hours) since I’d let loose on Merry, fucked up everything between us, and I hadn’t seen or heard from him at all, I had my music up loud.

I liked rock ‘n’ roll.

There was some guitar-twanging country that didn’t drive me up the wall.

But my personal little secret was that I was a diva queen.

I certainly had a gift with banging my head to some Quiet Riot.

But with my vacuum in my living room, I was a goddess ready for the Vegas stage, belting it out with the likes of Aretha, Tina, Whitney, Donna, Linda, Janet, and Cher (the other one, who could actually sing).

And at that precise moment, I was killing it, accompanying the fabulous Celine in her version of “River Deep Mountain High.”

The music was too loud with a dual purpose. First, I loved that song, and it needed to be loud so I could hear it over the vacuum. And second, it drowned out my voice so I could kid myself about the fact that I could accompany Celine without sounding like a howling cat who would make the real Celine take off running on her two-thousand-dollar Valentinos.

I was preparing to let go of the vacuum in order to have both my hands free to do the air bongos (something that any living being should do when Celine’s bongo guy lets loose on that track) when, suddenly, the sound cut out completely.

I looked to the receiver in my media center. Then my senses, no longer being interfered with by the brilliance of Celine, refocused and I whipped around.

Merry was standing by my coffee table, my remote in his hand, looking at me, mouth curled up in a smile, his tall, lean body shaking with silent laughter.

Fuck, I hadn’t locked the door after I came home from taking Ethan to school.

Fuck! How had I forgotten to lock the damned door when I came home from taking Ethan to school?

Fuck! He knew my diva secret!

Fuck, fuck, fuck! He’d heard me singing!

I turned off the vacuum.

“Celine?” Merry choked out.

I stared at him.

“You, my brown-eyed girl, who’d see Tommy Lee lookin’ at her rack and smack him across his face for bein’ forward, causin’ him to write a song that’d have millions of women throwin’ their panties at him, listens to Celine fuckin’ Dion?” he asked.

His brown-eyed girl?

Garrett Merrick’s brown-eyed girl?

Me?

Garrett Merrick, estranged from me because I’d been a foul-mouthed, overreacting crazy lady, was standing in my living room calling me his brown-eyed girl?