Mom Jeans and Other Mistakes Read online

  TITLES BY ALEXA MARTIN

  Mom Jeans and Other Mistakes

  THE PLAYBOOK SERIES

  Intercepted

  Fumbled

  Blitzed

  Snapped

  BERKLEY

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2021 by Alexa Martin

  Readers Guide copyright © 2021 by Alexa Martin

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Martin, Alexa, author.

  Title: Mom jeans and other mistakes / Alexa Martin.

  Description: First Edition. | New York: Berkley, 2021.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020058108 (print) | LCCN 2020058109 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593198896 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780593198902 (ebook)

  Classification: LCC PS3613.A77776 M66 2021 (print) | LCC PS3613.A77776 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020058108

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020058109

  First Edition: September 2021

  Cover design and illustration by Colleen Reinhart

  Book design by Kristin del Rosario, adapted for ebook by Kelly Brennan

  Interior art: Emojis © Cosmic_Design/Shutterstock.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments,events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

  pid_prh_5.8.0_c0_r0

  Contents

  • • •

  Cover

  Titles by Alexa Martin

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue: Lauren

  One: Jude

  Two: Lauren

  Three: Lauren

  Four: Jude

  Five: Lauren

  Six: Jude

  Seven: Jude

  Eight: Lauren

  Nine: Lauren

  Ten: Jude

  Eleven: Lauren

  Twelve: Jude

  Thirteen: Lauren

  Fourteen: Jude

  Fifteen: Lauren

  Sixteen: Jude

  Seventeen: Lauren

  Eighteen: Lauren

  Nineteen: Jude

  Twenty: Lauren

  Twenty-One: Jude

  Twenty-Two: Jude

  Twenty-Three: Lauren

  Twenty-Four: Lauren

  Twenty-Five: Jude

  Twenty-Six: Lauren

  Twenty-Seven: Jude

  Twenty-Eight: Lauren

  Twenty-Nine: Jude

  Thirty: Jude

  Thirty-One: Lauren

  Thirty-Two: Lauren

  Thirty-Three: Jude

  Thirty-Four: Lauren

  Thirty-Five: Jude

  Thirty-Six: Jude

  Thirty-Seven: Lauren

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Readers Guide

  About the Author

  To Abby, my favorite sixth-grade locker partner, college roommate, and future Irish cottage co-owner. Forever grateful for your friendship and love.

  PROLOGUE

  • • •

  Lauren

  “And just one more,” our landlord, Miss Morielli, says as she hands Jude and me the final paper to sign before our town house is legally ours.

  The irony doesn’t escape me that I’ve had to sign more paperwork to live in a town house with brass hardware and popcorn ceilings than I did to take my daughter home from the hospital. I’m pretty sure being granted a tiny human should at least require a background check.

  “Thank god. My hand is starting to cramp,” Jude moans beside me. “I thought people signed this stuff over the computer now? Did you know they aren’t even teaching kids cursive anymore? I wonder what Addy’s signature is going to—ouch!” She finally stops talking and glares at me for kicking her beneath the table. If she’s expecting me to feel bad, she’s going to be waiting awhile because I don’t. Not even a little bit.

  HGTV has really tricked people into believing that house hunting is this joyful experience where the only downside is the previous owner’s terrible taste in wallpaper. And maybe it is when you have unlimited funds and don’t have to worry about all the ways your five-year-old could possibly conduct a vault flip off the loft railing or mistake the terrible green paint for a chalkboard she can deface.

  So after weeks of looking and lowering our standards until I’m not sure they could get much lower, the last thing I need is for Jude’s complaining to throw a wrench into everything when we’re one signature away from finally crossing the finish line.

  “We’ll sign as many papers as you want. We’re just so grateful to live in your beautiful property.” I sign my name on the final line and push the paper over to Jude—who is still glaring at me. I’m definitely the suck-up between the two of us. And I’m good with that. “Adelaide hasn’t stopped talking about how she wants to decorate her room or asking if the cookies she had when we toured the house will be there too.”

  “Oh, the pleasure is all mine.” She takes the document from Jude, a wide smile spreading across her face. Probably from knowing how much money she’ll be making off a condo she no doubt paid off ten years ago. “It can be so hard finding the right people to rent to in this city. But the last lesbian couple I rented to was so nice and respectful, I was thrilled when your family walked through the door.”

  My eyes nearly pop out of my head as I register her words, but Jude, my very reactive and not at all measured best friend, almost comes out of her seat. “Oh my god, what? No!” There’s no masking the shock in Jude’s voice. I’m not sure if I should laugh along or be offended she’s so horrified at the idea of kissing me. “I mean, not that I haven’t swum in the lady pond once or twice, but never with Lauren. She’s my best friend, we’re practically sisters. Gross.”

  Okay.

  Not offended. Just wildly embarrassed.

  Thank god this happened after we finished signing the paperwork and the condo can’t be revoked.

  Poor Miss Morielli’s cheeks look like we set them on fire, and I’ve never related to a person so much. Jude really knows how to work a person up. “Well, I guess it’s a moot point, with as much paperwork as you both just signed together, you may as well be married. At least for the next twelve months.”

  “I’m not sure I believe in marriage.” Jude stands up and rounds the table. I swear, the woman is incapable of keeping any of her thoughts to herself. She’s lucky she’s too far away to kick this time. “But I am a fan of sister wives . . . without the husban
d, of course. It’s all of the support with none of the dude drama. I guess you could say that’s what we’re doing.”

  “Sister wives, huh? I think you might be onto something.” Miss Morielli holds out two keys. “I hope you’ll enjoy your new home.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Jude grabs the keys out of her hand and crosses the room, placing them next to the only photographable plant in the room. I have no doubt in about two minutes the photo will be on her Instagram feed with about a million filters. “We’ve only been planning this for our entire life. This is going to be the best year ever.”

  I think about asking Miss Morielli for her notary and making Jude sign that statement. Because as much as I’ve warned her and she’s said I’m crazy, I have a feeling having a rule-following mom and a five-year-old for roommates is not going to be everything she thinks it will be.

  But like it or not, she’s stuck with us now.

  ONE

  • • •

  Jude

  Children and hangovers do not mix.

  I’m sure it’s common sense to most people, but this is not a problem I ever thought I’d have.

  For one, my uterus is under heavy protection. And two, by the time I have kids—if I ever do—I’ll be a real adult who makes grown-up decisions. You know, like one glass of heart-healthy red wine with a well-balanced meal and not the parade of low-carb vodka shots I had after eating a side salad, no dressing, last night.

  But as the sticky, tiny fingers literally peel open my eyes, and my tongue is uselessly stuck to the roof of my mouth, I have the very unkind realization that this is my new life . . . at least for the next year. And for the millionth time, I hope that if a giant sinkhole were to open up, it does so underneath Asher Thompson’s feet.

  “Auntie Jude, Mommy made pancakes. She said to ask you if you want some before you go to your special meeting.” Adelaide holds my eyelids hostage and stares into my eyes, which are no doubt bloodshot, with the most innocent expression that it almost makes me smile. Almost.

  “Addy.” I push her hands off my face and resist the urge to hit her with my pillow. But, seeing as she’s only five, I feel like society and her mother might frown upon that kind of thing. “We have to find a new wake-up technique. You’re going to give me crow’s-feet.”

  Her mouth purses and her little nose scrunches, giving her these wrinkles on the top of her nose that are adorable now but might make her consider Botox in about thirty years. I don’t tell her that. “You’ll get a birdie’s feet?” Her voice is a screech, and she honestly sounds appalled. “What happens to the rest of the bird? How will it land with no feet?”

  “Oh my god.” I wrap my arms around her and pull her down to me, covering her chubby cheeks with kisses until she squeals. “This is why I’m obsessed with you,” I shout over her peals of laughter before sitting up with her and ignoring the slight pounding against my skull. “Crow’s-feet aren’t birds. They’re the little lines around eyes that make your grandma Keane always look so sleepy and old.”

  “Oooh.” She nods, but I’m pretty sure she still has no idea what I’m talking about.

  “Yup.” I crawl out from under the duvet I spent way too much money on, but photographs like a dream, and climb over the boxes I have yet to unpack. “And you don’t want Auntie Jude to look like Old Grandma Keane, do you?”

  Instead of answering and then apologizing profusely for endangering my skin, she shrugs, and I’m pretty she couldn’t actually give a fuck. Rude. “Are you going to eat pancakes with me?”

  “No pancakes for me.” I grab her hand and walk with her down the stairs of our new townhome. “Repeat after me: carbs are evil.”

  “Carbs are evil,” she mimics. For a five-year-old, she follows direction beautifully.

  “Carbs are not evil,” Lauren says from somewhere. And even though I can’t see her, I know she’s glaring at me.

  But whatever, sue me. Someone needs to teach kids the importance of diet. That high metabolism and glowing skin they are unfairly blessed with aren’t going to last forever.

  “Mommy!” Adelaide drops my hand like a bad habit and takes off running to the table, where a plate of cut-up pancakes is waiting for her, complete with eggs and a healthy serving of fruit. “Wanna know what Jude taught me?”

  Lauren walks around the corner, a coffee mug to her lips, looking way too hot in her mom pajamas and headscarf. The glare I knew she had is directed at me before she drops it and aims a bright smile at Addy. “Sure, baby.”

  “She said that Grandma Keane looks so old because of all the birdie feet on her face.” She pops a grape in her mouth, completely unaware of the rising tension in the kitchen. “And what’s a carb anyway?”

  We’re going to have to work on keeping secrets.

  “Carbs give you energy to make you big and strong. And Grandma Keane doesn’t look old, she looks wise.” Lauren goes to put down her mug before grabbing the organic maple syrup and drizzling the saddest little sprinkling that I’ve ever seen on her pancakes before making direct eye contact with me. “Can we talk for a second?”

  Crap.

  I know that tone. It’s the same one she used in sixth grade when we were locker partners and I took one of her glitter gel pens out of our locker without asking . . . and every time I’ve pissed her off since.

  “Actually.” I make a move to the coffee machine, in desperate need of both caffeine and an excuse. “I’m really thirsty.”

  Lauren grabs my arm and pulls me out of the kitchen with a smile that both terrifies and intrigues me frozen on her face. “Eat your food, Adelaide, we’ll be right back.”

  I look to Addy for help since she’s the one who ratted me out, but instead her eyes are closed and her shoulders are bouncing as she chews her pancakes.

  Maybe I do want carbs and sugar. I’m not sure I’ve ever looked as happy as Addy does. And if pancakes and organic syrup are the answer, who am I to argue?

  “What the hell, Jude?” Lauren snaps me out of my syrup-coated fantasy. “You can’t talk to Adelaide like that. Do you understand the hell Ben will give me if she goes to visit him and she tells him we’re over here talking about how old his mom looks?”

  “Fuck Ben and his mom. She’s a bitch and he’s trash. He should really just be happy I’m not saying more.” I have to fight back the rage that always tries to claw its way to the surface whenever I think of Lauren’s piece-of-shit ex. I really try to be Zen- and peace-like, but that dirtbag always fucks up my chi.

  Lucky for me, I guess, my anger seems to defuse Lauren’s.

  “What’re you fucking smiling at?”

  “You’re just so cute when you’re mad.” She pinches my cheek, something she knows I hate. “Plus, my mom still defends Ben whenever he comes up, so it’s nice that someone has my back.”

  “Well, your mom’s a bitch too. But she’s still goals AF when it comes to aging well, so I couldn’t use her for an example with Addy.” I’m sure you’re not supposed to talk about your friend’s family like that, but Lauren and I don’t lie to each other, and Mrs. Turner really is a bitch. She never liked me and I’m a fucking delight. But I never liked her, either, so it was completely mutual. Even eleven-year-old me knew I never wanted her approval. The same could not be said for my people-pleasing best friend . . . which only made me hate Mrs. Turner more. I wouldn’t mind if she shared her beauty routine, though, but I’m thinking my lack of melanin might prevent me from ever being on her level.

  “I can’t say you’re wrong about any of this, but you still can’t say it to Adelaide.” Lauren fidgets with an imaginary string on the sleeve of her flannel pajamas. “You know how hard it’s been for us. I just don’t want her to go see him and say something that gives him an excuse to walk away from her and blame me for being the crazy baby mama.”

  Lauren is a spitfire. She’s confident and strong and the smartest person I’
ve ever known. Whenever I have a problem, she’s the first person I tell. She gives me the best advice, and when she’s done talking to me, I feel like fucking Wonder Woman. She knows what she wants in a way that both intimidates and inspires me. But whenever she talks about her douchebag ex, it’s like I can see her visibly fold into herself. She shrinks right in front of my eyes and becomes this meek person I don’t even know. And if he wasn’t my favorite five-year-old’s dad, I’d have already paid a hit man.

  Well . . . I would’ve when I wasn’t broke as a joke.

  “I’ll try to be better,” I reassure her, but when she glares at me, I know I’ve failed. “Fuck. Fine.” I uncross my fingers from behind my back and hold them in front of me. “I promise not to say anything about Ben or his stupid family in front of Addy.”

  “Thank you.” She smiles and her perfect white teeth gleam against her brown skin. “And when she’s not around, you can talk all the crap you please.”

  “I guess that’s fair.” I pout like Addy did the other night when Lauren told her she had to take a bath. “You know, it’s still so weird to me that you’re a mom. Like, you grew a fucking human! A really cute one at that. But, now when you give me the mom eye, it actually scares the shit out of me.”

  Even before Lauren had Addy, she would look at me like I was crazy. I do have a knack for putting myself in not the greatest of situations. I used to laugh her off and try to get her to join me (which never happened), but I guess losing countless hours of sleep and wiping butts for years just gives that look more authority, because now I cower.

  “I know, and as a mom, I have to ask if you remember that you have a photo shoot in an hour?”

  “Duh.” I totally didn’t remember. Because where Lauren is an actual adult, I just play one on Instagram.

  “Mom . . .” Addy’s hesitant voice calls from the kitchen. “I think I might’ve put too much syrup on my pancake.”

  “Crap,” Lauren whispers underneath her breath before calling into the other room, “it’s okay, accidents happen, here I come.”