Stuck With You: A Sweet Romantic Comedy

Final Episode

Bianca

Franny's sixth birthday party was a smashing success. All of Franny's friends oohed and aahed over her cake, which she explained in excruciating detail to anyone who would listen.

That cake required a lot of explaining. When Timo had informed me that the marzipan creatures on the top were winged cows, I'd been forced to take his word for it.

Franny's friends? Not so much. There was a lot of spirited debate over the identity of the flock/herd until Camille took the matter in hand and cut the thing into pieces, distributing each piece with a mystery animal and a fluff of cotton candy.

I expected more critical commentary from the parents—mothers mostly—but they were too engrossed in sipping their seltzers, pretending to avoid the grownups' appetizer table, and gossiping with each other—that and taking turns chatting up Timo.

Seriously, those mothers were shameless. And one of the fathers. Apparently, it was well-known amongst the Nob Hill Montessori crowd that Rob and Camille had the hottest manny this side of the moon. I questioned whether some of the mothers hadn't brought their kids to Franny's party just to get a gander at him.

I didn't like it, although I took comfort in the fact that Timo didn't seem to like it, either.

Finally, when one of the mothers had Timo cornered in the kitchen, back against the refrigerator, I couldn't contain my indignation any longer. I forcibly removed the hand of that mother from Timo's hair.

"I don't think we've met," I said, in a vain attempt to turn the paw-removal into a handshake.

"I don't think we have," the hair-groper said, pulling her hand out of my grasp. "I'm Sophia's mother. Whose mother are you?"

According to Marta's regular reports on the deportment and moral fiber of her fellow inmates of Nob Hill Montessori, Sophia was a serial offender in the commission of crayon hoarding and paper towel wastage. Sophia was also a prime suspect in the mysterious decapitation of a plush packrat, which had tragically lost its head behind the reading center bookcase, but, according to Marta, Sophia's guilt had not been proven beyond a shadow of a doubt. There were certain factions within the class who thought the cruel murder of Packy had been the work of Devon, but it was Marta's personal opinion that Sophia and Devon had cooperated to deprive poor Packy of his head. To me, it sounded more like a custody battle gone wrong than premeditated murder, but I was rather hazy on the protocol for taking possession of communal items at Nob Hill Montessori.

Sophia's mother looked like the sort of woman who'd raise a daughter capable of such wanton cruelty as had been inflicted on poor Packy.

I would have wagered Sophia would also grow up to be the kind of woman who ran their fingers in an unwanted manner through the hair of other people's boyfriends. Sophia's mother seemed very much like someone who'd steal other people's things.

My possessiveness threw me off-guard. Was Timo my boyfriend? I hadn't quite gotten there yet, or so I'd thought.

Judging by the fact I wanted to rip Sophia's mother's fingers off one by one just like poor Packy the packrat's plush head, I guessed Timo must fall into the general boyfriend/significant-other category.

"I'm childfree," I told Sophia's mother.

"Child what?"

"Childfree. Unencumbered by the weighty responsibility of—"

"Is that what they're calling it these days?" she said. I think she was trying to mimic pity, but it came out closer to derision.

I didn't want or need pity. I refused to accept derision.