“Mom! Have you been talking to Sonia? She’s such a tattletale.”
“She is not. She’s simply taking what you told her and telling your mother so I can be in the loop.”
“That’s literally the definition of a tattletale.”
Mom shrugs. “So she’s a tattletale. And what’s so wrong with that?”
As I look at her in disbelief, I hope she’s forgotten what she was originally talking about.
“So, Gavin.” No luck for me. “I hear he’s courting you.”
Please let that be the exact way that Sonia phrased it when she told Mom. Shared dick pic aside, I don’t want Mom to know I’m doing the nasty with anyone.
Or that courting in the modern age apparently means mutual masturbation in an opulent sex room.
“So? Even if he wants to...court me, it doesn’t mean I’m interested in him.”
“But are you?”
Clever woman, my mom. She realizes when I haven’t actually answered the question yet. “No. As if.”
“Yes, it’s very convincing when you say no and then use slang from the nineties.”
“I guess it wouldn’t matter now. It’s not like I can disappoint Dad by fraternizing with the enemy.”
“The Carlyles aren’t enemies, beta. We’re competitors. But also peers.”
“That’s not what Dad thinks.”
“Oh really? I’ve had a standing weekly lunch date with Laura Carlyle since we moved here.”
“What?” She never mentioned this before.
She shrugs like it’s not a big deal, destroying my entire worldview developed in childhood with one elegant shoulder movement. “We met when we were planning a charity event for literacy. Who else in the world knows what I’m going through? We don’t talk specifics, but it’s comforting to get advice and talk through problems with someone who’s in the same position as me.”
“What do you tell Dad?”
“Excuse me? I don’t owe him an accounting of my time. I tell him I’m going to lunch with a friend, and then I leave.”
“But...”
“They’re nice. The Carlyles. You could do worse.”
“You’re just grandbaby mad.”
“You two would make the most adorable babies.”
“Whoa.” I physically recoil at the responsibility. “Even if we get together, I’m not giving you grandbabies anytime soon.”
“One step at a time.” She pats my knee.
“I don’t know,” I wail, Mom catching me at a weak moment. Made weaker by everything I just learned. I need time to process all this. “I don’t have any real complaints other than I’m scared at how hard it would be to coexist with someone I’ve always competed with.”
“It might be hard, but not impossible.”
The wordhardmakes something click in my brain. Since when am I afraid of hard work? I thrive in hard situations. “You’re right. Sonia’s right. I’m right. And I’m not afraid of hard work.” I stand, mind made up. “I have to go do something. Can you put the food away?”
“Yes, I can,” Mom says, giant smile on her face. Then she looks me up and down. “But maybe you should change first. And run a brush through your hair.”
