Mom’s face falls immediately. “Why not?”
“I’m grateful,” I say. “I am. But I already told you—I’m not taking money from you. And Connor and I are not moving in together.”
“Noah,” Dad starts.
But Connor cuts in before he can finish.
“Actually,” he says, his arm tightening subtly around my shoulders, “we have talked about moving.”
I turn to look at him so fast I nearly give myself whiplash.
What is he doing?
If he gives my mother even a crumb of hope, she’s going to grab onto this and never let go.
“Really?” Mom asks, her disappointment vanishing so quickly it’s almost alarming.
Well. Here we go.
“Yes,” Connor says, giving my shoulder another small squeeze, probably because I’m now staring at him like I’m trying to set him on fire with my eyes. “Moving out of our building is long overdue for both of us. We actually talked about it yesterday.”
“Connor,” I say, very carefully.
He glances at me, all calm innocence. “What? We did.”
Technically, he’s not lying. Yesterday, we both said we needed to get out of that building. Separately. But of course, my parents don’t know that, so they take it as confirmation of exactly what they want to hear.
“That’s wonderful news!” Mom says, beaming, and Dad nods along, both of them looking at us like they’re waiting for details.
“The walls in our building are horrific,” Connor continues. “There’s not much privacy.”
Mom nods immediately, like this is a very serious point. “That must be so frustrating,” she says. “You’re young. I imagine it really ruins the mood when you’re trying to have a private moment.”
I feel my face go hot.
Oh. My. God.
I take a large sip of wine, mostly to give my mouth something to do that isn’t screaming.
Connor just nods, like he completely agrees with her. Then he pauses, as if he’s deciding whether to elaborate and make it worse.
Then he makes it worse.
“And we’ve both talked about getting a dog.”
I freeze.
My mother makes a noise that sounds dangerously close to a squeal.
“Oh, that’s wonderful!” she says. “Noah’s always wanted a dog. Remember how he used to beg us for a puppy, Daniel?”
“Every Christmas until he was fourteen,” Dad says.
I close my eyes and force myself to breathe.
Great.
Perfect.
