Page 18 of Not Just a Trick Play

“This type of thing wouldn’t happen if you were in an actual relationship.” My mother’s attention drifts to the other side of the room. The wall of wedding, with a photo of her and Dad all decked up, front and center. It’s surrounded by pictures of Beatrice, Carla, and Helena, each one posing in their white gowns with their respective grooms.

A conspicuous gap persists in the collection—exactly the dimensions for three more frames of the same size. The holdouts—Heidi, Yvonne, and me. Every time we visit, there’s a pointed look at our designated spot.

“I don’t want a relationship.” It’s a familiar refrain.

“And what’s wrong with having one?” Helena wrinkles her nose. No, this is not news to her.

Beatrice jumps in on the pick-on-Jake parade. “She’s right, Jake. When are you going to find someone tobearyour soul to?”

Without missing a beat, I retort, “I’ll work on it as soon as you stop posting play-by-play updates of PTA meetings like they’re reality TV episodes.”

Truth is, I will settle down at some point. Totally want the works—dogs, wife, kids—but the drama it’ll take to get there? That, and dad bod, I can do without.

“So, what, you’ll turn into a dirty old man? Kind of pathetic to be running around chasing skirts while your friends couple up,” Helena says, taking up the charge now that I’ve shut Beatrice up for the moment.

“For fuck’s sake, I’m only twenty-eight,” I protest.

Mom glares at my language. “At twenty-eight, I had three kids.”

“And then you had three more after that. It’s not like I have a biological clock ticking down. My sperm are mighty swimmers.”

“Only until they are geriatric sinkers,” Carla mutters with her usual Black Widow wit.

My balls shrivel at the thought.

Mom claps, drawing the discussion away from the inevitable waning of my virility. “Okay, who’s staying for dinner?”

“I am.” Carla’s hand shoots up. “But only if we’re making your lasagna. Annie’s on a food strike, won’t touch anythingelse. I’m one skipped meal from a bad parenting hotline, plus she swears I can’t make it like Grandma does.”

“I’m sticking around too,” Helena calls. “I’ve put Jerry on homework duty with Marcus, and the girls are at a movie.”

Mom turns to me.

I shrug. “Might as well.”

“Excited, aren’t you?” Her tone is dry.

A grin pulls at my lips. “Mother, dearest, I would love to partake of your excellent cooking.” Piling on the charm seems like a good idea before I have to reveal the gala may not happen this year.

Will full stomachs soften the news? Or kill everyone’s appetite? Fuck, Should I try to get in front of this, control the narrative, Jessica-style, or hold off until there’s no salvaging the situation?

“That’s more like it. B?”

Beatrice shakes her head. “I have to go pick up Brady from hockey.”

“I have a date,” Heidi announces.

“With who?” I immediately ask.

“Some guy I met on Tinder. And don’t you start with the big-little-brother routine, I already stalked him online earlier. Ivy League, no known felonies, a chef at Morandi.”

The big-little-brother routine is my job, and one I undertake faithfully. When I was nine and Dad got sick, that’s what he told me to do. Take care of the girls. There was that time Heidi’s boyfriend promised to take her to prom, but ended up kissing her best friend instead, leaving my sister crying. I may have been a kid, but I still made the lying fucker pay. I stuck Icy Hot in his pants, making him jump around like a kangaroo on fire. Heidi wasn’t even mad when I eventually confessed. She laughed until she cried again—happy tears, all thanks to yours truly.

“A true prize. Got a picture?”

“Already in the group chat.”

“He’s cute,” Mom pipes up. “I checked out his Facebook profile.”

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