Page 33 of Bad at Love

“Let me give you a ride.”

“Uh… no, that’s okay. You just got home from work.”

“It’s no trouble.”

He looks almost desperate, which isn’t normal. Does he feel how weird things are too? Is he trying to fix it? I should let him. I don’t want the guy uncomfortable in his own house, but I also really don’t want him knowing about my mom. I’m not ready for all the questions, or having to talk about it. I can hardly wrap my head around it myself, and I’ve had this information for sixmonths. Relenting, I get into the car, dropping all the packages to the floor before putting on my seatbelt.

“So, what’s with all the packages?” he asks as he backs down the driveway.

“Just work stuff.”

“I thought you were a content creator?”

“I am,” I say carefully.

Stop asking questions. Stop asking questions!

“So, what are you sending?”

“Oh, uh… you know. Merch.”

“Merch?” he questions. “What’s that?”

“Merchandise. Personalized with my brand.”

Now that is gold. I hold in my laugh, because if there is a way to brand something more than cumming on it, I’d like to know.

“Like T-shirts?”

“Yeah, sure. Totally got t-shirts in these packages.”

Kind of a lie, kind of not. There is one with a t-shirt. The others are boxer briefs.

“How come you don’t wear them?”

I can’t help the laugh that bursts out of me, and the odd look I’m getting from Gabe only makes it worse. We stop at the mailbox, and I drop everything inside, which gives me a minute to compose myself.

“Sorry,” I say as I get back in the car.

He nods firmly, jaw tense. I pissed him off again. Great.

“Where does your mom live?”

Shit. I forgot about that.

“Uh, just a few houses down. The yellow one that’s set way in the back.” I ramble off the one house that I can remember. I always notice it when I’m walking because it’s set way back in the yard. Further back than even Gabe’s house.

“The one with the long, curving driveway?”

“That’s the one.”

“Your mother lives there?”

“Yes,” I answer confidently, and I’m impressed with how convincing I sound.

There isn’t another word spoken as we drive the couple blocks. He pulls up in front of the house, idling the car on the side of the road.

“This the one?” he asks, bending forward to look past me and at the house.

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