Boston's Man-Eater

XXXII

After hours of going head to head at the bowling alley, I drew myself upon a seat of the kitchen island as my mother giggled.

"You can never accept defeat, can you George?" Her green eyes twinkled as he wore a scowl.

"I sprained my wrist when I was picking up the ball."

"It was the death of your pride."

She shifted her gaze across the table, and aimed it at me.

It was hot and thorough, I had to refrain from itching.

"So, tell us..."

"Tell you what?"

"Anything pertaining to your life, what's happening?"

They knew that I was a terrible liar.

A blush crept up my neck, tinting my cheeks as I pushed all the foregoing events to the back of my mind.

"I've been promoted to being the Junior Editor."

"That's exciting, honey, but you already said that four times now. What about your personal life, maybe?"

"Nothing's changed," I shrugged, and she worriedly glanced at my dad .

"So, you're not seeing anyone. No girlfriend or boyfriend perhaps?"

My breath caught in my throat.

Should I tell them? Is it too soon?

"No."

"We just want you to know that no matter what your sexual orientation is, we're here to support you all the way."

"Thanks mom, but I'm not gay."

"I know that, you genuinely used to like Amber—" Right.

"Neither am I bisexual."

"Well, are you sure?"

"Positive," I hesitated(!), "Why don't we watch some T.V?"

My father's disapproving hum interjected as he stretched his tall body.

"We didn't fly all the way here to do something we could've done at home."

"He's right. Can't leave this place without discovering every nook and cranny about my baby's life."

*Cringe.

"Then you're just going to be disappointed when you find out that my life is not as interesting as you imagine it to be."

"I'm ordering a pizza. What are we getting?"

"The usual," my mom chirped.

Ah...Hawaiian.

"Your brother visited last month."

"Oh I know, he came over for a day before flying to Toronto." —Right before this whole vortex of events came along.

"I miss you boys so much," she gushed with misty eyes.

"Oh, mom," I walked over to hug her.

She'd always do this, and it'd always get the best of my conscience. Her words were immediately punctuated by the accustomed pang in my chest.

"We miss you too," I whispered.

"Living with your father is depressing," she said, and we laughed.

"How am I depressing?" He stared at her from behind his glasses.

"You never listen to me, or anything as a matter of fact. Always reading those books of yours."