Page 106 of Gambler's Fallacy

“Oh, I got another TerBaby to sign up!” Connie says cheerfully. “I met with her here half an hour ago, actually. I offloaded—I mean, I sold her a bunch of my stock. I just need to get two more people to join, then I’ll qualify to be a bronze level TerMom.”

I fight my grimace as Caleb’s words come back to me.

I understand how these things work more than I care to admit. Those at the top are preying on those like Connie, who in turn prey on others. It’s unsustainable — as my bank account keeps showing me again and again — but because I’ve always been there to rescue her, she doesn’t understand that.

I wish I could give the CEO of TerMa a visit like I give Caleb’s problems visits, but that won’t solve anything.

It’s still tempting.

“So what happens when you…” No. I’m not asking. I’m not feeding into this. I’d promised myself that I wouldn’t do this anymore, that I wouldn’t encourage her or enable her. That means I have to stop trying to placate her.

Connie takes her own coffee and sips on it. “How are things with the boyfriend?”

“Good,” I say, my hackles instantly going up. “How are things with you and, um…” I don’t want to say his name. No matter what she thinks, he’s a weasely little shit.

Connie waits expectantly.

I finally sigh and give up. “Peter. ”

She bursts out laughing. “I didn’t call him. I like that you tried so hard not to say mean things about him. But don’t worry, I’m not seeing anyone right now.”

I glower at her, then take another sip ofmy coffee. “Good. No one you’ve tried to date is good enough for you anyway.” I know she’s going to gripe about me trying to parent her again, but if not me, who?

It’s not like she knows how to take care of herself — and that’s no one’s fault but my own.

Connie and I sit quietly for a few moments, and I brace myself for the usual requests for cash. But we’d only just met up. She can’t need more money again so soon, right? Especially not if she managed to con somebody else out of their life’s savings.

“You know what day it is next month?” Connie asks, a lot sadder. “Are you going to be free that day? I thought we could go out to the cemetery.”

My mood, already shaky, turns darker. “Yeah. We can go visit them.”

Visit them, like our parents are still alive. Like they haven’t been dead for a decade, like they’re going to magically come back to life if we faithfully return to their graves every year.

“I’ll pick you up that Saturday at ten?” I suggest. “We can have lunch afterward. Put it in your phone so you don’t forget I’m coming.”

“Yeah,” Connie says, her smile turning brittle. “I was thinking about Mom the other day. I tried baking an apple pie, like she did. Of course I fucked it up, but do you remember that one Thanksgiving, when her pie was?—”

“ —a slimy goo,” I finish with her. We both laugh. “I still don’t know how she managed that.”

“She blamed Dad!” Connie smiles at me. “I remember that. She said he bought the wrong type of… something. Butter? I think she actually underbaked it. The pie crust was gross and soggy too.”

“It wasn’t her best year, no,” I agree. “But the turkey that year was great.” I pause, then add with a chuckle, “Probably because Dad made it. Good thing one of them knew how to cook, huh?”

Connie scoffs. “He cooked twice a year. Barbecues for July 4, and turkey for Thanksgiving. Mom handled all the heavy lifting. Maybe she wasn’t a gourmet cook, but I loved her mac and cheese.”

“I can make it for you,” I tell her. “I have the recipe still.”

I wonder if Seven likes macaroni and cheese, too, or if he’d like her recipe. Maybe after I try it out on Connie, I can make it for him.

“I’d like that,” Connie says, smiling. “And then I’ll teach you how to do it properly, because I’ve seen your kitchen, Sebby. You don’t own a casserole dish.”

“I can get one,” I say. “Fuck, we can make a day of it. Go to that kitchen supply store, visit the cemetery, make mac and cheese and apple pie…”

And hopefully never bring up TerMa or Caleb Spade or even Seven, anything that could cause us to bicker and argue. It’s a pipe dream, I’m sure, but it would be nice to celebrate our parents’ lives without fighting.

“You think you can manage an apple pie better than I can?” Connie says skeptically. “There are so many steps involved!”

“I can absolutely buy one from the supermarket that’s ten times better than anything you could make,” I say, smirking.

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