Page 13 of Sticky Situationship

“It wasn’t the play-by-play I needed.” Charlotte, an off-off Broadway performer, part-time barista, and full-time drama queen pouts. She hands my mom her weekly delivery of dark-roast beans, leaning in to accept the peck my mom presses to her cheek.

I head inside and shrug off my coat, hanging it on the coatrack. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” I say in a last-ditch attempt to nip this conversation in the bud. “Things are over between us.”

Charlotte follows me inside and hangs up her wool coat. She slips off her boots and drops them to the hardwood floor with a clatter. “That’s not what I heard.”

The knowing tone knots my stomach. So much for not rehashing every sordid detail. At least, the promise of a good meal dulls my annoyance. I follow the savory aroma of roast beef and rosemary to the kitchen and swipe a handful of crackers and a wedge of some sort of fancy cheese off the platter laid out on the counter.

“Wine, Charlotte?” Mom asks, as if she doesn’t already know the answer.

“Please,” Charlotte chirps, already retrieving two wineglasses from the cupboard.

I slump onto a barstool at the island while Mom uncorks a bottle of red.

“So,” Charlotte begins. “Spill it, Brock. What exactly happened with this whole girlfriend/not girlfriend situation?”

I roll my eyes. “Can we not do this, right now?”

“I can wait until we sit down at the table, if you’d rather.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Then right now it is.” She leans forward with gleaming eyes. “I want all the juicy details Mom left out.”

“There are no juicy details,” I grumble. “It’s over. End of story.”

Mom raises an eyebrow as she pours two glasses and hands one to Charlotte. “You sure about that?”

I’m saved from answering by my stepfather, Robert, wearing his usual navy cashmere quarter zip, who comes in and claps me on the shoulder. “Brock! Good to see you. Need a beer?”

“God, yes.”

“What’s this I hear about woman troubles?” he asks, opening the fridge.

Not him, too.Now, I really wish I hadn’t come. Robert, an anesthesiologist, uncaps the frosty pilsner and passes it to me. I take a long pull, grateful for the brief escape from the nonstop questions.

“He’s being tight-lipped,” Charlotte informs him as he pulls her in for a hug.

“I’m not being tight-lipped. You want to know what happened? Fine, I’ll tell you” I say, hoping offense is a better position to play. “I met someone a few months ago, and when Mom wouldn’t stop trying to set me up byconvenientlyinviting women here for Sunday night dinner every other week, I told you guys I had a girlfriend. So you'd all stop pestering me.”

“But this girl wasn’t actually your girlfriend?” Robert seems confused as he pours himself a tumbler of scotch on the rocks.

“Not exactly,” I admit. “I met Libby about a week after I moved into the building. She lives next door, and her fire alarm went off late one night, and I—”

“Came to her rescue,” Charlotte interjects, faking a swoon, as if it’s the most romantic thing in the world.

I frown. “I took care of the problem, and we…hit it off. Libby made it clear she was too busy to commit to a serious relationship, so we kept things casual.”

“Casual as in friends with benefits?”

“Charlotte!” my mother scolds, glancing up from the stove where she’s stirring something in a pot.

“What?” Charlotte protests. “That’s how things work these days, Mom. You can just fu—I mean, hang out without being committed.”

I take another swig of beer. A long swig as my mother eyes me. I shrug. She’s a smart woman. It’s not as if she didn’t see enough the other day to put two and two together. “It worked for us.”

“Clearly,” Charlotte drawls sarcastically, lifting her glass to her lips.

“So then what?” Robert presses as if he can’t wait for me to continue the story.

---