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“We should invite Andy Sutton to dinner.”

The hair on the back of my neck prickles to attention, and I freeze with a spoonful of Cheerios poised at my lips. Several agonizing seconds tick by while I struggle to rewire the circuits between my brain and my mouth so I can respond. “Why?”

“Why not?” Mom stares into her bowl, suddenly fascinated by her oatmeal. “You and Andy used to be friends.”

“Not since I got boobs.” Memories of the zit-faced teenager next door spying on me from his bedroom window—with a freaking telescope—flood back to me. I have zero interest in sitting across the table from the adult version of him. “I only have a few more days of winter break. At least wait until I go back to campus.”

Her head snaps up. “No! You should be here. It’ll be like old times.”

“What old times? We never—” I study her through narrowed eyes. “Is this another one of your matchmaking schemes?”

Mom avoids eye contact, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “Don’t you think it’s time you jump back into the dating pool?”

This time, the synapses in my brain go off like firecrackers. “Not with Andy Sutton!”

“Be nice, Kennedy,” she pleads across the table. “He’s had a crush on you since third grade.”

“So?” A bone-rattling shudder runs through me at the thought of kissing Peeping Andy. “No more matchmaking!”

“Fine. But . . .” Her brow furrows, and I can almost hear the gears turning as she plots her next move. “Watching you squander your youth kills me. There’s more to college than books and classes.”

“Mom . . .” I exhale, sending dust motes dancing through the air.

“I just wish you’d find a boyfriend—or a girlfriend for that matter—and start experiencing life before you end up with a list of regrets as long as your arm.”

“I’m not—”

“So you’ve said. But for the record, I wouldn’t love you any less if you were.” She flashes a sympathetic smile. “You and Nicole have been joined at the hip since second grade. You can’t blame me for wondering. Especially since you moved into the sorority house together.”

“We share a room, not a bed.” I laugh and shovel another spoonful of cereal into my mouth.

“Hmm. Maybe you’re asexual,” she offers, as calmly as if she were speculating about the weather.

I suck in a breath, and a stray Cheerio lodges sideways in my throat, cutting off my air supply.

“I read all about parenting your LGBTQIA offspring in the January edition of Eve’s Orchid.”

I should’ve known she’d cite her pseudofeminist bible.

“Fascinating article,” she rambles on while I sputter and cough. “I had no idea there were so many different sexual preferences out there. I promise I’m not judging, but it would explain why you’re not interested in meeting men.”

Her outrageous assumption renders me speechless, and my lips fall open. I politely decline her offer to mount the creepy next-door neighbor, and this is the conclusion she jumps to? It’s not my fault my last relationship unraveled faster than a cheap sweater. And if I’d only kept those details to myself, I could’ve avoided this conversation entirely. Instead, I told her that Lucas cheated on me—presumably because I wouldn’t sleep with him—and unwittingly triggered every single regret she’s been harboring from her college days. It was like Dad leaving all over again.

“Kennedy?” Mom waves a hand in front of my face.

Instead of responding, I take another bite of soggy cereal and chew slowly.

She snaps her fingers, her brown eyes stretching so wide they nearly roll out of their sockets and right into her instant oatmeal. “I’m talking to you.”

While I wait for the impending plop, she lets out a dramatic sigh.

“You can’t ignore me forever.”

Just watch me.

As if the whole Lucas debacle weren’t enough motivation, ever since Dad showed up on my twentieth birthday with his much younger mistress in tow, Mom’s been on a one-woman crusade, hell bent on getting me to “experience life”—or at least, all the things she didn’t experience when she was my age. She hijacked my entire winter break, turning it into a series of failed matchmaking attempts. The same woman who bought me a purity ring for my sweet sixteen has been stashing condoms in every pair of jeans I own, tucking at least two dozen more into the pockets of my overnight bag, and God knows where else I’ve yet to discover. One of us definitely needs an intervention, but it sure as hell isn’t me.