Page 60 of The Girlfriend Zone

To celebrate keeping my promise to resist Leighton yesterday, I rewarded myself with a new book. After the evening class I’ve been taking at the local university ended, I stopped by An Open Book and picked upVillain Era, a sci-fi spoof with a dastardly looking tabby cat on the cover. It’s an allegory about resistance in the face of a tyrannical leader—not the cat; the cat leads the rebellion—and the irreverence of the storyline sealed the deal. Last night at home, it was just me, that book, and my mom’s dogs crawling onto my lap and sleeping on my head.

In the morning, I return the little stinkers on my way to the arena, bounding up the steps to her home near Dolores Park with a quartet of little yappers on a long braided leash for four. Whoever said Chihuahuas aren’t spicy never met a Chihuahua.

Mom swings open the door, greeting her dog children with open arms.

“How wasThe Last Single Guy in New York?” I ask over the chaos. Tawny Bippity yips at Mom, Boppity, the long-haired cinnamon mix wags her tail, and the blond hellion, Boo, howls his greeting. The black-and-white harlequin, Cindy, licks Mom’s ankles like she’s been starved for affection, even though I gave her heaps of love. Drama queen.

“It was amazing,” Mom says, drawing out the last word. “The songs were so good. Thank you again for watching my unholy terrors.” Then she tilts her head, eyeing me slyly. “Did you take them to the bookstore to meet women? You know you can use them for that. Think of them as an opening act.”

I roll my eyes. “You too, Mom? As if I don’t get enough from Birdie.”

“They’re both relentless,” Harvey calls out from the kitchen, where I can see he’s brewing coffee. “Best to give in.”

“Thanks, love,” she says to him with affection in her tone.

“I’m always on your side, dear.”

“Smart man,” I yell down the hall, laughing.

“So,” Mom says, like a dog with a bone, “it’s been a while since Joanne. Surely, you’re ready to date again.”

That’s not even the issue. But now’s not the time to get into it. “I’m fine with dating,” I say, hoping to leave the convo at that.

“It’s the apps, right? They’re getting you down. That makes sense,” she says, not even waiting for me to answer her apps question. She scoops up Boo and Cindy, alternating in petting the demanding pups. “And you know…I’ve been listening to some podcasts and hearing more and more about this hotshot new matchmaker that some singles are using. Her name is Isla Marlowe and she’s supposedly got the Midas touch.”

Are we really having this conversation right now? “Mom,” I begin, a touch of warning in my tone.

Harvey snickers from the kitchen. “Good luck, Miles,” he mutters.

Mom barrels on. “It’s apparently a wise approach to dating apps fatigue. That’s a real thing these days. I heard all about it on another podcast,” she says, since my mother is the queen of show tunes and podcasts. “And with all the dating apps fatigue, there’s sort of a revival in traditional ways of meeting. And non-traditional. One man even put up a billboard touting himself.”

I roll my eyes. “Mom, I’m not putting up a billboard.”

“Of course you aren’t. I’m just saying—it’d be nice to see you out there again. You weren’t in a great place at the end with Joanne. And that was understandable. But you moved on and learned, and now look at you,” she says.

And she’s not wrong, but I can’t get into it with her now. Or really at any time. The words“There’s only one woman I’m interested in and she’s the coach’s daughter”would open up a can of worms that’s best kept closed.

I check the time on my watch. “I need to go hit the ice.”

“But you’ll think about it?”

Ah hell. I hate to be a dick to Mom. Years ago, I swore I’d look out for her and my siblings. I held to that promise and in a lot of ways I still do. Now that I’m older I like to think that promise also means I won’t lead her on.ButI can have a little fun. “Mom, maybe save the matchmaker for Tyler when he’s ready to date again,” I say, fighting off a smile as I throw my brother under the bus.

“Oh, good idea! And don’t forget to pick him up on your way to the arena,” she says, reminding me in that same mom tone she used when I was a kid and she’d ask me to walk Tyler to school while she went to her real estate job, pounding the pavement, trying to sell as many homes as she could and pay for our lives since Dad was having none of that. Or us.

“Don’t worry, Mom. I won’t forget Little Ty-Ty,” I tease, using a name my big, burly defenseman of a brother would hate. I bend down to scoop up Cindy, who licks my face right on cue and whimpers like she’ll miss me. Yup. Drama queen. “See you soon,” I tell her, and I’m off.

After hopping back in my electric car, I swing by Tyler’s rental home in Pacific Heights, and he’s already on the front porch, giving his daughter, Luna, a goodbye hug at the sky-blue door, then his son, Parker. Their nanny, Agatha, waves to me from the foyer, her eyes crinkling in a smile. Tyler jogs down the steps and slides into the passenger seat.

“You ready for me to school you in skills today?” he taunts, smirking.

“Why am I driving you?”

“Because you never stopped being our extra parent after Dad took off,” he replies, his tone half-teasing but pointed.

“Ouch. Way to psychoanalyze me.”

He shrugs. “You were always the helper. Into cooking, making sure our homework got done, dragging us to sports…”

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