Once a Nerd Ch. 12 - Sex Stories

Once a Nerd Ch. 12

... sexuality. Beyond that, I contemplate pitching myself over the railing. The blurted confession is the only other way I can think to end this waking nightmare, consequences be damned:

"Ah, I'm actually—seeing someone!"

Of course, my mom would've chosen this moment to come check on the status of her son's chronically low social battery. "Sam!" She gasps excitedly, inserting herself in the clump we've formed under the lamp. "Why didn't you say?"

Well, now it just looks like I'm full of shit.

"It's...tentative." I hedge, polishing off the flute to give my mind time to catch up with my mouth. "You know me, I don't like to...rush into anything."

"My boy, so cautious." She sighs, though it's fond. "I can't wait to hear all about him."

Goddamnit.

My phone jolts in my pocket, and there's a 99.9% chance it's Dean. The few friends I'm close enough to exchange numbers with had already spread their holiday well-wishes around earlier in the day. I excuse myself to the bathroom, plucking my phone out as I retreat indoors. Dean sent a series of pictures: the gym, his dormitory's hall, a courtyard, and a few other snapshots from around the university. Empty, nary a soul in sight. His caption reads:

"You'd think it's the goddamn apocalypse."

I chuckle to myself, already typing a reply.

"Just say you're lone—"

Jumping out of the thread, there's the startling crash of glass and a woman's alarmed cry. Professor Harkin's wife had knocked over a row of upside-down ...

... wine glasses drying on a towel by the sink. She's mortified over this social faux pas, painted face engulfed in flames and hands clasped to her breast. "Oh my goodness, I'm so—I'm so sorry!"

Leaving my phone on the island, I rush to placate her. This is my mother's house, after all, so I'd be the next best suited to resolve an incident like this one. "No, no, don't worry about it. These things happen, I'm honestly shocked I've gotten this far without breaking something myself." I assure her, laughing. Self-deprecation is the simplest way to diffuse a person's embarrassment. The broom and attached dustpan live between the fridge and the short wall it's tucked against, which I happen to be in arm's reach of.

Grabbing the broom, I urge her to take a few steps back. "Please, I'd hate for you to get hurt."

"Thank you so much, Sam, and again, I'm so—"

"Is everything alright?!"

Mom came storming in from the patio at sounds of discord, hovering behind me. "Just a few glasses, no big deal."

"Oh, God, I'd thought someone was..." Tiny, seemingly insignificant details—like the way my mom's voice trailed off into faint silence. Squatted down with my back to her, deeply focused on collecting every shard of glass into the dustpan, it meant nothing to me. It didn't even register. When she picked that sentence back up, I didn't realize she'd dropped it to begin with. "...hurt."

By three, her guests have begun trickling out. By four, the common areas of her home are cleared ...