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I feel like my mother just punched me in the gut. That’s exactly what Kiera always used to say to me when we fought—that I wasn’t communicative enough about my feelings, even though I always felt like I was showing Kiera how I felt, pretty damned clearly, with my actions.
“I saw the way you were looking at her!” Mom says. “Don’t you dare pretend you haven’t noticed how pretty Amy’s become.”
“She’s very pretty, yes. But, like I said, she’s like a sister to me.”
Mom’s face turns downright wicked. “My darling son, if you looked at Chiara and Caitlyn’s boobs the way you kept staring at Amy’s tonight, I’d beat the living crap out of you.”
My breathing halts. Did I seriously ogle Amy O’Brien’s tits in front of my mother and stepdad tonight? Holy shit. I really am a monster!
Mom adds, “So don’t blame me if I seized the opportunity to manifest the Beretta-O’Brien grandbabies I’ve always dreamed of!”
I’m speechless. Staring at my mother in disbelief. Finally, I say, “You’re insane. I’ve always suspected as much. But now I know it, for sure.”
Mom laughs and shakes her head, clearly not getting it, so I decide to make things abundantly clear. Otherwise, God knows what mischief she’ll get into at the wedding tomorrow night.
“Listen to me, Mom. I can’t make a move on Amy, ever. Yes, she’s sweet and beautiful and funny—and I admit I’ve always had a soft spot for her. But there’s no middle ground here. No chance for us to ‘date’ like normal people. Like you said, she’s always had a crush on me, and I’d never want to hurt her. If things didn’t work out between us, she’d be decimated and my friendship with Logan would never be same.” I sigh. “Amy doesn’t even have a crush on the real me, Mom. You heard her. She’s crushing on some weird fantasy version of me, who, for some reason, can’t stop doing nice things for her—a guy I couldn’t deliver to her, in the long-term, even if I wanted to. If you’ve been dreaming of Beretta-O’Brien grandbabies, then I’m sorry to inform you: you’d better find a new fucking dream.”
Mom’s eyes become lasers. “You’re saying you felt no physical chemistry with Amy tonight?”
My pulse is thumping in my ears. “That’s right.”
Mom narrows her eyes even more. “Well, great. I suppose that’ll come in handy when Amy stays at your house for almost two weeks—at your generous invitation.”
“Did you not hear she’s going to work for me? Of course, I offered her my guest room, when we’re going to be driving to the same place every day.”
“You’re seriously trying to convince me you’ve offered to help Amy find a job, and offered her a place to stay, for no other reason than because she’s like a little sister to you?”
“Mm-hmm. That’s right.”
Mom cocks her head. “Is that also why you asked Amy to be your date to Laila’s star-studded birthday party, as well—because she’s like a sister to you?”
Mom’s dark eyes are boring holes into my face like she’s got X-ray vision. So I know, from past experience, I’ve got to give this bloodhound something, anything, to throw her off the scent.
“As a matter of fact,” I say, “I asked Amy to be my plus-one at Laila’s party, partly to help her, but mostly to help myself.” I tell my mother about the “canoodling” photo I snapped of Amy and me in the restaurant, and how I noticed, shortly after posting it, that Laila Fitzgerald had liked it. “I recently made a fool of myself with Laila,” I admit. “I pursued her, romantically, and it didn’t pan out—and, unfortunately, Laila’s boyfriend knows all about it. So, when I saw Laila had liked that photo of Amy and me, I figured bringing Amy to Laila’s birthday party as my date might help smooth over an otherwise awkward and uncomfortable situation for me.” I smile like a shark. “So you see, Mother, I’m not bending over backwards to help Amy, nearly as much as you’re assuming. And I’m likewise not nearly the saint Amy thinks I am. In reality, I’m much closer to a douchebag who’s killing two birds with one stone—helping Amy, yes, since I like her and it’s an easy thing for me to do, while also helping myself avoid a potentially tense situation with Laila and her boyfriend. So, I’d appreciate it if you’d stop trying to get yourself Beretta-O’Brien grandbabies and stay the fuck out of my shit.”
Mom doesn’t flinch at my harsh language and tone. Rather, she purses her lips, calmly, and stares me down the same way she’s done my whole life, whenever I’ve gotten out of line with her. And I must admit, she’s scaring me now, every bit as much as she did when I was a kid.
