Page 61 of The Dare

We still haven’t labeled our relationship in explicit terms. I’m fine with that, though. Great, even. There’s far less pressure to meet expectations, or have them crushed, when things are kept loosely defined.

That said, I am starting to wonder where Conor sees this going. He invited me to California over the summer, but was he serious about that? And did he mean as friends, friends with benefits, or something else? Not that I’d hold it against him if he saw the end of the semester as the conclusion of our exclusive entanglement. I just wish there were a painless, non-awkward way of asking if he expects us to ride out the summer on the status quo.

Then again, I might not want to hear the answer.

On my way to the library, I get a call from my mother. It’s been a while since we spoke, so I’m happy to hear from her. “Hey there,” I answer.

“Hi, honey. Do you have a minute?”

“Yep, just got out of class. What’s up?” I take a seat on one of the wrought-iron benches lining the cobblestone path.

“I’m going to be in town Friday evening. Are you free?”

“For you, of course I am. The Thai place just reopened if—”

“Actually,” she says, and I don’t miss the note of wariness in her voice, “I already have dinner plans. I was hoping you’d join us.”

“Oh?” Mom is being unusually coy about something as benign as dinner, which gets my mind racing. “Defineus.”

“I have a date, to be specific.”

“A date. With someone in Hastings?” What happened to being too busy to date?

“I’d like you to meet him.”

Meet him?

Is she serious? Isthisserious? My mother’s always been more driven by her career and scientific pursuits thanromantic relationships. Men rarely hold her interest long enough to develop an important role in her life.

“How didyoumeet him?” I demand.

A pause. “You sound upset.”

“I’m confused,” I tell her. “When did you have time to meet someone in Hastings? And why is this the first time I’m hearing of him?” It’s been years since Mom brought anyone around and introduced them to me; she doesn’t bother until she feels the relationship is serious. The last time she visited, she wasn’t seeing anyone—which means this is a very new, very fast development.

“After we met for lunch last month, I stopped in to visit a colleague at Briar and he introduced us.”

“So this guy’s, what, like your boyfriend now?”

She gives an awkward laugh. “Feels like such a juvenile term for someone my age, but yes, I suppose he is.”

Jesus, woman. I take my eyes off her for five minutes and she’s gone and shacked up with some townie. Or worse, a professor. What if he’s one ofmyprofessors? Eww. That feels weirdly incestuous.

“What’s his name?”

“Chad.”

I suppose it was ridiculous to expect her to call him Professor Somethingorother. Doctor Whoeverthefuck. But Christ in a basket I never, ever envisioned Iris Marsh knocking boots with aChadof all people. Somehow, I doubt he stacks up against a woman of my mother’s singular intellect.

“I’m still sensing some hostility,” she says, her tone cautious.

Yeah, I guess I am a little hostile to the idea that mymother’s been making clandestine trips to Hastings and hasn’t once asked to see me or even called to let me know.

A clench of hurt tightens my chest. When did I become second place? For my entire life it’s just been the two of us against the world. Now there’s a Chad.

“Just surprised,” I lie.

“I want you two to get along.” There’s a long pause, in which I hear her disappointment that this conversation isn’t going better.

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