Page 34 of Yes No Maybe

More surprisingly,this is a book I can teach. His expert use of literary devices feeds my teacher’s imagination—not only can I teach the same concepts that I do with Shakespeare or Hemingway, but withThe Other Us, it’ll actually be… fun.

What if I turned my classroom into an everyday book club? With ideas spinning up like a tornado, my wine-in-bed plans will have to wait until after a brainstorming session.

Rose and Vernon rush from their house when I pull into the driveway.

“Oh, Rowan, you’re finally home.” She claps. “We must discuss Operation Foster Furniture.”

“It’s an honorable thing,” Vernon says, “offering your home. My Uncle James and Aunt Loraine hosted foster children and foreign exchange students for some thirty-odd years. Of course, that was when—”

“Vernon, no. Rowan, we’re headed to Jack’s for dinner. Join us.”

“Um, I need a shower… and to take care of Edgar… and do some things.” The more I speak, the worse my excuses sound.

“Come after all that, love,” Rose says, unfazed. “We’re making BBQ pizzas. Yummy for the tummy. I’ve been sent loads of furniture pictures. It’d be nice if you could sort what you want.”

“Our street is a generous one,” Vernon says, “and there’s no time like the present to do a good deed. I want to work out the pick-up and delivery with Tom and Jack. But we can’t make plans without you. You like pizza, don’t you?”

“Of course. But is theentireneighborhood invited?”

“Just our little corner. Do say you’ll be over.”

“Yes, in a little while.”

Rose claps giddily again before they take the path between our houses to his backyard.

Almost an hour later, I follow the same path. Twinkle lights and Edison bulbs brighten a surprisingly peaceful setting—this isn’t his typical party. My neighbors sit beside the outdoor kitchen at a large round table, laughing, drinking, and nibbling from a charcuterie board and slightly charred pizza from the oven.

Vernon and Tom stand in old-school formality as I join the table. When the typical greetings are out of the way, I say, “Where’s Jack?”

“Writing.” Rose motions to the lighted, open windows of his office. “Having people around sometimes helps, like background noise at a coffee shop.”

Marcy loads a plate for me while Tom pours me an expensive Merlot. I’m about to question these ever-evolving rules concerning Jack—not to disturb him while he’s writing and yet come over and enjoy a meal in his backyard while he’s writing—but my phone chimes.

I hold it up. “It’s Mom from India. Is it okay for me to take this?”

“Oh, yes! We’d love to meet her.” Rose lights up, bouncing in her seat.

I accept the FaceTime call and find Mom where I usually do—sipping tea in the small courtyard of her rental. It’s morning there, and she’s dressed in a silky blouse, sleeveless to highlight her toned arms, and probably black pants, though I can’t see them. She’s one of few women in the world who can pull off a pixie haircut—it makes her seem taller and goes with her professional vibe. Her signature gold hoops dangle from her ears, and she twiddles with the single pearl necklace around her neck.

Until lately, Mom and I have always been extremely close. Now a consultant for the military and overseas companies, she’s busy. Sometimes distracted. But our communication has suffered since Dean came into my life. She doesn’t think he’s right for me and, like Mira, doesn’t refrain from telling me so. Still, given her difficult history with men, I doubt she’ll ever approve of anyone.

Circling the table with my phone, I introduce my neighbors. “This is my mom, Christine Mackey.”

Vernon stands up, saluting her. “Thank you for your service. My father, God rest his soul, worked a submarine mess hall for fifteen-odd—”

“Vernon, no.” Rose pulls him to his seat.

The group chitchats about India, military service, and the weather before I give up holding my phone and perch it against a pepper grinder to put the entire table on-screen.

When Mom asks about the oyster roast, the table goes silent, everyone glancing around to see who might answer first.

“It was fine. Let’s not talk about it. Or Jack.” My abrupt tone sounds rude, though I whisper the last part.

Rose flashes her most sympathetic look. “Did something happen with Jack?”

“He behaved so admirably last night.” Vernon folds his arms.

“Wait. Who’s Jack?” Mom leans toward her computer screen.

---