Mrs. G—who also happens to have been my high school history teacher—says, “Not gonna lie. My vibrator is my best friend since my husband left three years ago.” She makes a face. “Actually, it was my best friend for about a decade before that, too.”

Record screech!

Her vibrator?

I look over at my mother, who is studiously not looking at me.

I look down at the bins.

Real Romance.

Personal care, my ass. Possibly literally.

“Mami,” I say. “A word.”

“Not right now, Rachel.” She frowns.

I hold up a hand. “If you’ll excuse us,” I say to the circle of women.

My mother moves excruciatingly slowly on crutches, but finally we get far enough from the living room that I can whisper-yell, “What’s in those bins?”

“Relationship enhancement,” my mother says. “Intimacy aids.”

“Sex toys?!”

“Shhh,” she says.

“You’re selling sex toys!?” And then, with dawning horror, “We’re selling sex toys! On Brody’s boat!”

Because my mom loved the idea of bringing her parties onto Brody’s boat, and we agreed to do one tomorrow night.

Or, more exactly, I agreed to do one. My mom has already told me there’s no way she can take the broken foot on a boat, and after watching how much she sucks on crutches, I had to agree with her. Tonight, I’m learning the script so I can fly solo tomorrow.

A truly, truly horrifying thought occurs to me.

“Oh, God!” I say. “Does Brody know what we’re selling on his boat?”

“I think so?” my mom says.

“Not good enough!”

Pretty sure I yelled that, based on the fact that it suddenly got quiet in the other room.

She consults the ceiling, then says, “No, wait, yes. Yes. He definitely does.”

I eye her suspiciously, but she says, “No, for sure. I gave him the website.”

I’m honestly not sure if that’s better or worse. Because now Brody Wilder thinks I offered to sell sex toys on his boat.

This is definitely not going to improve the Brody-hates-me problem.

“Rachel,” my mother whispers. “We have to get back in there.”

“You. Told. Me. Essential oils.”

“I knew you wouldn’t do it if I told you what it was.”

“Damn straight!” I say.

“Rachel,” says my mother. “I was dubious too. But please come back in that room with me. You’ll see. I promise.”

“I am not going back in there. My high school history teacher is in there. And my Spanish teacher!”

“I can’t do it alone, Mamita. I can’t. Look at me.” She slumps on her crutches.

My mother does not employ the guilt trip too often, but when she does, she is an absolute, world-class expert.

“Please,” she says. “At least stay for this. If you still hate it afterwards, you can bail. I will explain to Brody that you are afraid to handle the merchandise in his presence.”