Page 30 of The Plus One Pact

Where is she going?

She's an adult. She has a job. Of course, she wants me out of her house. Not everyone falls in love with me the first time we have sex. Despite popular belief, plenty of women enjoy sex for the sake of it. Plenty of women enjoy sex without strings, without getting confused about their feelings.

Sure, I'm good, but—

Dammit, I'm getting distracted.

"Sweetheart?" My mother asks. "Who is that? Or do you even know her name?"

"What's wrong, mom?"

"Your brother. He didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"No. Of course he wouldn't." She tsk-tsks in the way she does. "You know he's always worried about you and Cynthia."

"What's there to worry about?"

"Romeo." She puts so much emphasis on my name. The way Daniel does, but without the condescension. It's all in those three syllables.

She's right, of course. She doesn't have to explain.

Cynthia didn't start out as Daniel's fiancée. She was my best friend. My very platonic best friend.

She fell for him right away. He's the one who didn't see her that way. Mom says we have a romantic love story, two friends who never realized they love each other. Or she did. Until she and Daniel got serious.

Well, until a few years after she and Daniel got serious.

This is Mom’s story, isn’t it? Daniel doesn’t care.

"He's in a tizzy, darling. He's having visions of Cynthia walking down the aisle, seeing you standing in the best man spot, realizing she's marrying the wrong brother," she says.

"This isn't a telenovela," I say. This is her vision, not his.

"He thinks you feel it too," she says. "And that's why you've never found someone."

"That's ridiculous."

"Then why haven't you found someone?" she asks.

So, he didn't believe I have. Or he didn't relay that to her.

Ivy knocks again. "Hey, Romeo—"

"Who is that?" Mom asks.

Has it already been five minutes?

No. I was supposed to leave last night. I was supposed to leave after an hour. I'm the one who needs to go. "Mama, I need to go. My—"

"Don't bother to lie, sweetheart. We both know you're not good at it. I don't care what you do as long as you do it well. And use protection. There’s a reason I never took you to mass.” She mutters a curse in Italian. Unusual for her. She’s usually the sort of Catholic who never criticizes the church. “Calm him down. I love you."

"I love you too," I say.

She hangs up.

Ivy moves into the room.