Once a Nerd Ch. 12 - Sex Stories

Once a Nerd Ch. 12

... of any evidence of said guests. The first heaping round of dishes clink gently against each other in the dishwasher, braving the scalding storm trapped to a box. The rhythmic churn of water makes for good white noise. It's our second Thanksgiving without Dad, and I'm sure Mom chose to surround herself with superficial company to avoid feeling the depth of that hole. I can't be upset with her for it, but this—just she and I, is all I would've wanted.

With nothing left to clean, we're sitting across from each other at the end of her long dining table, my untouched pie and a half-empty bottle of pinot grigio between us. Two slices are cleaved from the tin tray, and our glasses are refreshed with what's left in the bottle. Before this moment, nothing felt amiss. Mom and I chatted about inane things and gossiped about her company as we gathered trash, boxed leftovers, and rinsed away the remnants of food from her fine plates. But, now, something's definitely amiss. Mom's pensive, bordering on upset.

I'm thinking it's to do with Dad, but—

"So, tell me about this man."

Ah.

I should've expected this, but my mind blanks as soon as 'so—' leaves her mouth. Should I lie, and say I'd been lying earlier? There's nothing I can say about Dean that wouldn't give it away, only how he treats me in the bounds of our relationship. That anxiety I'd forgotten about is buzzing in my feet, creeping up my legs. Once it settles in my chest, my breathing becomes a forced, manual effort. ...

... For how proud I am of him, I desperately wish I could sing his praises to my mother. I wish I could go on and on about how handsome, talented, and toughminded he is.

I wish I could tell her howmuch he loves me.

How much I've grown to love him. How he molded that powerful feeling in my heart with his own hands.

But I'm my mother's thirty-year-old son. I'm not sure she'd care about any of that in the grand scheme. Who, in their right mind, would?

"There's no one like that, Mom." I sigh, fighting to sound honest and natural. "I just said it to get some space."

Her thin brows lift over the rim of her glasses. "Really?"

It's a tone I've not heard since I was a child. When you've lied about something, and your parents are giving you that last chance to own up to it:"Really? Are you sure? I won't ask again, Sammy."

My blood freezes over, and the only thing I can do is double-down. "Yes, really. Don't you think you're the first person I'd tell?"

She huffs a little laugh, but there's no humor in it. It soundssad. "I'd hope so. I just want my boy to be happy."

"I am, Mom, I'm happy." I promise, and there's a sense of urgency to it. It's the truth, even if I can't share the details of why. While it's a parent's ingrained instinct to worry about their offspring, I never wanted to be a child she had to fret over excessively. I feel like shit for lying, but it wouldn't compare to what I'd feel watching her face contort with horror and disgust. If there ever comes ...