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“Mom?” I open the door. She rushes in, her hands full of paper bags.
“Hello little peanut!” she chirps, dumping the bags on my kitchen island. I stand in the middle of my apartment, shifting my eyes from a startled Shane to a cheerful Mom. Awkward doesn’t even begin to describe this mess. My mom never shows up unannounced. She must come bearing a pretty insane piece of gossip. Shit, I hope Izzy isn’t pregnant.
“Oh, Shane, honey, I didn't know you'd be here. I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop by and bring Blaire some…some—”
Some more reason to let Shane know this conversation is over?
“—snacks. I didn’t mean to interrupt your fun.” She waves the air frantically, like she is putting out an imaginary fire.
“Don’t be silly, Mom.” I start helping her unpack the groceries. I don’t rule out holding her hostage if it means I can avoid a confrontation with Shane. Seeing as this is my mom we are talking about, that says it all.
Shane stands up and puts his shoes on, hopping from one corner of the room to the other in an attempt to lace up his boots. He seems as comfortable as a cat trying to avoid the rain. “It’s cool, I was just heading out, anyway,” he assures. "How are you, Mrs. Stern?"
"Great. Thank you, Shane. And you? How is college life treating you?"
"Can't complain. Doing my best." He flashes his confident smile, regaining his composure. He's a slacker, just like me. Only Shane is too smart to fail at anything, anywhere.
They share an awkward hug, my mother's grin hinting she’s intrigued at finding our ex-neighbor here.
"I'm so happy you two are still close." She scans the room, hoping to find what exactly? Evidence of a hookup?
“Yeah, well, I've always been a big fan of your daughter.” Shane quickly adds, “The less famous one."
After a few more pleasantries, Shane leaves and my mom and I chat about work, Izzy (not pregnant) and everything in between. When she coos about how handsome Shane is, I refuse to cooperate. She then suggests I borrow one of Izzy's cute, designer outfits next time I meet him.
"So he can see just how pretty you can be," she suggests.
Gee, thanks, Mom.
Jane Stern would love for me to have a boyfriend. I wonder what she’d think if I introduced her to Tyler. Actually, I know exactly what she’d think. Hair buzzed close to the scalp? Cauliflower fighter’s ears? An 80/20 ratio of ink to skin?
Nope, she would not be weeping with joy.
But she would be weeping, alright.
When she brings up the subject of school, I inwardly cringe. I don't have helicopter parents per se. They let Izzy get away with whatever she wants to do. Then again, she's financially independent. I, on the other hand, have always been the quieter, less confident one. For that reason alone, I was expected to shine academically, but instead, my grades were so bad that the only degree I’m qualified for is in communications, and up until this year, it didn't look like I'd manage even that.
"How's school, darling?"
"It's good." I shove something in my mouth. Donut holes? Sponge cake? I'm not even hungry, just stalling to be honest. Mom's powerful glare is burning holes in my face.
"If you're struggling again and need any help..."
"I'm not struggling." I cut her off sharply, hating myself for being so harsh but knowing my mother will never back down. "I'm doing fine. I'm doing great, in fact. Acing my courses and everything."
"I'm just worried about you."
"No…" I start clearing the living room table of the plates Shane and I left. "You're worried about the tuition bill you paid."
"Blaire!" My mother springs from her seat, but quickly goes back to her normal, unruffled self. "Don’t say such things. I'm just doing everything I can to make sure you succeed."
Yes, including threatening to revoke financial support if I don't graduate this year. But I'm not in the mood for another argument.
"Mom, I promise, school is good."
After about an hour, our spontaneous get-together nears an end. Mom gathers her belongings and heads for the door. As I take a sip of my Diet Coke, she drops the mother of all atom bombs.
“Oh, by the way, your grandmother is getting married.”
I choke, spraying my Coke all over my coffee table and carpeted floor. There’s not a single hole in my face that isn’t shooting soda right now.
“Nana Marty?” I ask in astonishment. The name clarification is totally unnecessary, though, because my other grandma, Sally, has been six feet under for a decade now and is probably not planning a wedding in the immediate future. “To who?”
“A man she met at the retirement complex. His name is Simon.”
“Simon?”
“He’s seventy-four.”
“Seventy-four?”
“They’re moving in together.”
“Moving in together?” I choke again. My grandmother’s love life is more eventful than mine, and she’s like eighty-three. Doesn’t that make her a cradle snatcher? Or a wheelchair snatcher? Shit. Nana Marty’s getting married!
