Page 70 of Play the Last Card

My dad’s voice rang out from somewhere off screen. “Good thank you, son.” I smile a little shaking my head.

Mom isn’t fooled. “We’re fine, pottering along as always. But how are you? How is Boston treating you? The team?” There is a pause and I watch her nervously glance to where my dad is sitting next to her. “How is Ivy?” She finishes quietly.

Immediately I hear my dad groan. “Annabel. You promised to leave it alone.”

“I’m his mother, I’m allowed.” She scowls at dad. “It’s my god given right to meddle.”

“Leave the boy alone.”

I chuckle, pressing a hand to my chest as the dull ache starts to pound against my ribs at the mention of Ivy. I give my best noncommittal shrug, murmuring, “It’s all fine. Everything’s fine.”

“Are you sure? I’m worried about you. I—”

“I’m twenty-nine, you don’t need to worry about me.”

“You’re my baby boy. I will always worry about you. It’s my right,” she claims. There is a scoff from dad.

“I thought it was your right to meddle?” I ask her.

“I have lots of rights.” She lifts a mug to her lips and takes a sip. We stare at each other in silence for a second, my mom’s eyes narrowing just a little before she sighs, giving up her line of questioning.

Sometimes I curse how close I am with my parents. I tell them pretty much everything and anything. What socks I wear for a game, what Ihave for dinner if I try a new restaurant. I send pictures if I buy anything new.

And I told them about Ivy.

Big mistake.

My mom took the news that I met a girl and took her out a few times as a wedding announcement. I am wholeheartedly surprised that she hasn’t booked a venue yet. Although I know her well enough that she probably thought about it but decided it's best to ask what Ivy would want first.

The images of Ivy in a white dress, walking down an aisle toward me, has my mouth feeling like sandpaper. I reach over to grab my glass and take a sip.

“Scott Bowman Harvey,” mom scolds, making me flinch. “Please tell me that’s not alcohol in that glass?”

I swallow the whiskey, letting the burn dull the pain in my chest. “Again mom, I’m twenty-nine.”

“The night before a game, though? You don’t drink normally but especially not during the season!” She looks at my dad. “Jason, say something to your son.”

The phone tilts and my dad, leaning against their headboard with his glasses slid down his nose and a book in hand, comes into view. Without looking up from the book, I see his eyes roll and he replies in a dead tone. “Scott, do as your mother says.”

I laugh, “It’s fine. I just—” I pause.

“You just, what?”

“Ivy and I … we’re having a break. Sort of. I think.” I blame the whiskey for my blabbering. I promised myself that I wasn’t going to say anything to them until I figured out what I’m going to do myself. I certainly don’t want to tell them it was because I lied to her.

“Oh, darling. I’m sorry.” Mom’s features soften before she quietly asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” I say a little harshly. I sigh, putting my glass back on the side table. “I’m sorry. I just really do not want to talk about it.”

“Okay.” She takes another sip of her tea, dropping the subject.

“What’s going on with you guys?” I ask, trying to move past the Ivy topic.

“We thought we might rent an RV. Go on a bit of a road trip.” She glances at dad again.

“You aren’t allowed to drive at night. And, dad has the worst sense of direction in the world.” I rub a hand over my eyes. “You can’t rent an RV.”

“We can, and we will.” Mom nods her head like the decision is final.

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