“Does your mom know you’re here?” I ask as Tootie finishes her survey and helps herself to the seat Hillary vacated minutes ago. She takes a moment, making a show of wiggling her butt in the chair to feel out if it’s comfortable. The purse of her lips tells me she finds it suitable. “Yep. I told her I was going to come sweet-talk you into coming over for dinner, but don’t come. Ever. My mom burns toast like it’s an Olympic sport. I wouldn’t subject you to her cooking. Not even my enemy.” “Thanks for the warning.” “Anytime.”
