Make a Move

by Meika Usher

  “Tomato, potato,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. As if the who of ending a relationship did not matter. “She’s pregnant, you know.”

  “That’s...nice,” I murmured, heat creeping up my neck. I could feel everyone watching me, waiting for a reaction. Well, they weren’t going to get one. So Lucy was pregnant. So what? Good for her.

  “Your birthday’s coming up,” Ma continued, tapping her fork against the rim of her plate as her eyes settled on me like two dark laser beams.

  “I’m aware.” I gripped my own fork even tighter. It appeared that Ma was moving on, but I knew better.

  “You’re not getting any younger,” she continued as she speared a hunk of meat and lifted it to her lips. “Have you even dated anyone since Lucy?”

  “Ma,” Aidan interrupted in an attempt to divert her attention. “Are there any leftovers? Because you know how much I love your—”

  “Don’t you want children” Ma continued as if her youngest hadn’t even spoken.

  I sat back. “I—”

  “Oh, god,” she said before I could even string a response together. “Can you have children?”

  “What? Ma, I—”

  “Is everything all right with your...” She paused and glanced over at Cora, who’d decided to make art out of the leftover frosting on her plate, and Isaac, who had his whole fist shoved into his mouth. Then, she whispered, “Downstairs?”

  “Ma!” James looked mortified—on my behalf or just in general, I couldn’t tell. “I don’t think Nate’s downstairs is appropriate dinner conversation.”

  “Dinner is over,” she replied with a wave of her hand. “I am expressing my motherly concerns.”

  “We had a flood in our downstairs one time,” Cora said suddenly, looking up from her frosting art. “Mama had to call the plum guy.”

  “Okay.” James pushed away from the table stood. “How about we head into the living room, guys?” He scooped up Isaac from his high chair and held out a hand to Cora. “There’s a game of Candyland with your name on it.”

  “I don’t wanna play Candyland with you,” Cora pouted as she took his hand. “You never let me win.”

  “Of course I don’t let you win, sweetheart,” he said as they left the room. “You’ve gotta learn how to win on your own.”

  “Twenty bucks,” Aidan said once James was out of earshot. “Twenty bucks says that little girl has been kicking his ass for months, but he just lets her think she’s losing.”

  Sarah snorted. “You’re probably not wrong,” she said, her blue eyes bright with amusement. “That man hates to lose.”

  “Huh.” Aidan stood and stretched his arms over his head. “Maybe I should go in there and teach him a lesson in losing like a grownup.”

  “I think that’s a great idea,” Davis replied, standing, too.

  I felt myself relax minutely as they left the room, sending them a silent thanks for diverting the attention away from me. Turning back to the task at hand, I gathered the remaining dishes and started for the kitchen.

  “Have you ever thought about freezing your little men?”

  The question stopped me cold. My grip tightened on the plates as I turned back toward my mother. “What?”

  “Your little men. Your...baby makers.”

  “No, I know what you mean,” I replied. “I just...don’t know why you suggested it.”

  “Yeah, no.” Sarah stood and grabbed a couple empty glasses. “I’m with Nate on this one. He’s turning thirty-two. He’s got plenty of time.”

  “That’s what everyone thinks,” Ma replied, sailing around the table toward the kitchen. “Until there’s no more time left.”

  “Okay, listen.” The words were out of my mouth before I thought them through, and then they wouldn’t stop. “I am very much aware that I’m single. And that I’ve been single for a long time. But constantly pointing it out is not going to change that. So could you maybe...not do that?”

  The silence following my words was so loud my ears rang. Ma and Sarah both froze. Dad shifted awkwardly in his seat. Hell, even everyone in the living room went quiet.

  I never did that. I never spoke up. I usually just let Ma say her piece, let it glide off my back, and moved on. But tonight...tonight, I couldn’t do that. Between the Lucy news and a week of silence from Birdie and the endless, never-ending list of people in my life moving forward and living their lives while my wheels just kept on spinning in the mud...it was enough.

  But now my mother was looking at me, a wounded glint in her eyes. And Sarah was doing that pinched-lips thing she did when shit got awkward. And...well, fuck. I was going to have to apologize, wasn’t I?

  “I’m sorry,” I said, putting the plates back on the table. “I know it’s coming from a place of love. And I appreciate your concern. Just...” I trailed off, rubbing a hand over my face. That was it. Nothing else to say. “Sorry.”

  Ma also put her dishes back on the table. Then, she closed the distance between us and wrapped her arms around my middle. Her head rested on my upper arm—she wasn’t quite tall enough to rest it on my shoulder—and she sighed. “No, no. I’m sorry,” she murmured against my shirt, quiet, so only I could hear. “I just want all my boys to be happy. You don’t seem happy, Nate.”

  I wrapped my arms around her and hugged her back. Tight. She wasn’t wrong. And it sucked to hear it out loud. “I’ll get there,” I murmured back, guilt burning hot in my chest. “In my own time.”

  As I said the words, doubt radiated through me, even hotter than the guilt. I said the words to appease my mother—my loving, if overbearing mother. But they rang hollow in my own mind.

  Turning back to the table, I picked up the remaining carcass of Birthday Bunny.

  “Oh, you can toss that,” Ma said with a wave of her hand. “Your father doesn’t need the temptation.”

  “You kidding me?” Dad piped up. He’d been sitting silently all evening. I sorta forgot he was there. “That thing is nightmare-inducing.”

  I looked down at the one-eyed mess. It stared back, silently begging me for salvation. I’ve been used up and ridiculed, it seemed to say. And now I am unwanted.

  Same, ugly cake bunny, I thought. Same.

  “You know what?” I said suddenly, heading into the kitchen. “I’ll take him—er—it home.”

  18: Birdie

  “Fuck.”

  I dropped the knife to the counter and lifted my pinky to my lips. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  This was a disaster. I’d been scrambling for the last two hours to make my famous seven-layer dip for tonight’s game night, and I swore the universe was conspiring against me. First, the sour cream I had just bought was expired, so I had to run to the store for more. Then, Evelyn’s electric can opener wheezed its last breath while I was opening the refried beans. And now, I’d cut my pinky while dicing the tomatoes.

  How did I cut my pinky?

  I growled and turned to the sink, running my injured finger beneath a stream of cool water. As I rinsed, I inspected the damage. Not too bad, thankfully. Still hurt like a bitch, though.

  “Is everything all right in here, dear?” Evelyn eased around the corner, and I looked up to find an apprehensive look on her elegantly wrinkled face. “You’re banging around like a couple of hyenas trying to get it on.”

  And there went anything elegant about her.

  I laughed and shut the water off. That was why I loved her, though. “I’m fine,” I answered as I rifled through the cabinet right over the sink. Evelyn was infamous for nicking herself while cooking. She always kept Band-Aids in the kitchen. “Just...having a moment,” I finished as I located the bandages and ripped one open.

  “You’ve been having a lot of those lately.” She picked up my abandoned knife and finished dicing the tomato.

  I winced as she ran the super sharp knife through the tomato. Seriously. There was a stereotype about old women being masters in the kitchen. Here to tell you: in this case, it was not true. Evelyn se
t off the smoke alarm at least once a week. When I first moved in two years ago, I was excited by the idea of home cooked meals. If I’d known I would be the one doing the cooking, maybe I’d have rethought my lease...

  Evelyn pushed aside the chopped tomato and triumphantly grinned, her brown eyes twinkling. “All good,” she said, waggling her uninjured fingers at me.

  I threw a dishtowel at her and pulled a container of my homemade guacamole from the fridge. This was the secret ingredient to my seven-layer dip. No store-bought avocado vomit for my dip. As I spooned a layer into the dish, Evelyn leaned in. “You saved some of that for me, right?”

  “It’s in the fridge,” I answered without looking up. Every time. She asked me this every time.

  A joyful squee escaped her as she danced to the fridge. “You’re my favorite,” she said as she cracked the lid off the dish.

  “Tortilla chips are in the pantry.” I sprinkled a fistful of cheese on top of my dip, a little extra oomph in the action. “Victory,” I said, turning away from the counter. I never had that much trouble making this stuff. I didn’t know what my problem was tonight.

  Not true, my brain muttered. You know exactly what the issue is.

  I stifled a sigh and watched Evelyn dig into her personal serving of guac, a look of utter bliss on her face. My brain was right. I did know.

  Immediately, the image of Nate’s stricken face flashed through my brain, followed by a rush of guilt.

  I’d thought about texting him over the last week. Apologizing for laughing. Telling him it wasn’t a big deal. It happened. Nothing to be ashamed of. But then I’d think of the way his body tensed at the sound of my laughter, like I’d hit him. And I changed my mind. Better to apologize in person.

  Tonight. I’d apologize tonight.

  “Anyway,” I continued out loud, putting the cover on my dish. “I should get going. I shouldn’t be out too late tonight.”

  The chip bag rattled as Evelyn reached in for another. “That’s what you said last time,” she commented lightly, meticulously swirling her chip in the guac. “Then, you showed up with that fella and about scared the life right out of me.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “We both know your nosiness was the real reason you wandered out of your room at three a.m.”

  “I was a little startled,” she replied with wide eyes. Then, after a moment, she added, “I liked this one, though. You should bring him back.”

  “Oh, I don’t think that’ll be happening.” I grabbed my dish and crossed the kitchen. “He’s...it’s just not going to happen.”

  “What a shame,” Evelyn said as she put the rest of her guac in the fridge. “Haven’t heard ruckus like that from your room in a long time.”

  And then she vanished through the doorway before I could think of a thing to say.

  NATE WASN’T HERE.

  He was sometimes a few minutes late, so I didn’t think anything of it when I first arrived. My eyes kept traveling to the door, though. Just in case. I’d practiced my apology the entire way here. I would start off with a nice, self-deprecating joke, then launch into how awesome he was. And then, finally, I’d tell him I was sorry—really sorry—for laughing at him. It was an irresistible apology.

  But, half an hour into the evening, Nate still had not shown.

  “So...” I started, picking at a loose thread on the throw pillow to my left. “Nate not coming?”

  “Nah.” Sunny took a swig of her root beer. “He had a family thing.”

  We were sitting next to each other on the couch, waiting for Ben and Jude to get their asses in here so we could start a game of Cards Against Humanity. They’d been in the bedroom for about ten minutes now. Sunny said Ben was proposing—asking Jude if he’d be his best man.

  Apparently, it was one elaborate proposal.

  “Oh.” My stomach sank at Sunny’s answer, which was bizarre. I should’ve been relieved. No Nate meant no apology. Or, at least, more time to perfect it. Instead, I was...disappointed? Like...what even was that? “Is...is everything okay?”

  “Yeah, probably.” Sunny leaned forward, putting her drink on the coffee table. “He didn’t say it was an emergency, anyway.”

  I nodded, but didn’t say anything more. Another question would be weird, and I didn’t need Sunny asking me questions about why I was asking questions about Nate.

  Or whatever.

  “While the guys are in there professing their undying love for each other,” Cat said, gesturing toward the bedroom with a half-eaten Oreo. “We should talk wedding.”

  “Oh.” Sunny shifted in her seat, excitement hopscotching over her face. “Okay!”

  Cat wiped her hands on a napkin and leaned forward. Her brown eyes were brilliant with delight. “Have you given any more thought to spring?”

  “Spring?” Sunny looked from Cat to me. “I don’t know if Ben and I are spring wedding people.”

  “No, but hear me out.” Cat scooted to the edge of her seat, bright smile on her face. “Everything will be fresh and green and pretty. And—“

  “Except that we’re in Michigan,” I cut in without meaning to. “And spring is basically a muddy gray mess, except for the two days it’s not.”

  Cat sent a glare my way and kept talking. “You could have lilacs in your bouquet. And in your hair. And—“

  “I need a drink,” I declared, standing. “Anyone else?”

  “Nah, we’re okay,” Cat answered, then continued talking wedding without missing a beat. I glanced at Sunny, who didn’t seem totally miserable, and headed for the kitchen.

  It boggled my mind that Sunny and Ben were engaged. That was some super serious shit. Like, forever kind of shit.

  I couldn’t even commit to a tattoo.

  Leaning against the counter, I listened to Cat talking about wedding venues in the other room and picked at the label on my beer bottle. If Nate were here, he’d be able to rein the conversations in so we could get the game started. He was good at that—keeping people focused.

  But he abandoned me. Threw me right smack in the middle of couple hell.

  Asshole.

  Idly, I pulled my phone from my back pocket and swiped it open. With a glance toward the living room, as if I were about to do something wrong, I tapped the text icon and typed Nate’s name in the To box. I stared at the blinking cursor for countless seconds.

  What was I doing? Nate and I weren’t texters. The last time we’d exchanged messages was when he asked if I could grab a six-pack on my way to game night—three months ago.

  We weren’t texters, and we weren’t friends.

  Even still...

  Hey, everything okay? I typed, then immediately deleted it. Hope you’re all right, I tried again. But that sucked, too.

  With a sigh, I sat my phone on the counter and swigged my beer. Maybe I shouldn’t text him at all. What was the point, anyway? He had a family thing, Sunny said. He was likely A-okay.

  Except, what if he wasn’t?

  Or, what if he was, but he chose to skip tonight because he didn’t want to see me?

  That thought sent liquid irritation through my veins. Picking my phone back up, I typed: Hope you’re dying and not just avoiding me.

  Send.

  Before I could regret it, I shoved my phone back into my pocket and went into the living room. Sunny and Cat were discussing dresses, though they’d moved on to bridesmaids.

  “Obviously, I can’t tell you what to pick,” Cat was saying. “I just know that red isn’t really a spring wedding color.”

  Sunny subtly clenched her jaw and reached for her drink. “Are those two done making out yet?” she said as she stood and headed down the hall.

  “Was it something I said?” Cat whispered as she vanished.

  I shrugged and took a drink from my bottle. Getting in the middle of Sunny and Cat about anything was a bad idea. Sometimes, I didn’t know which one was scarier. Best to just...lay low. “I like your shoes,” I said instead of answering her question.

 
; Cat brightened. “Oh, thanks!” Extending her foot, she pointed her toe and admired the shiny black stilettos as the tiny silver buckles caught a glimmer of light. “I got them on sale last week!”

  As I let her tell me all about the other things she’d gotten that day, my phone vibrated beneath my butt. I jolted a little. Bet it was Nate, telling me that, no, of course he wasn’t avoiding me. He would never. That wasn’t a nice thing to do. And, by golly, he was a nice guy.

  Except that when everyone else filed into the room and I had a minute to peek at my messages, there wasn’t an apology or explanation or justification in sight.

  I’m not dying, was all it said.

  No follow-up text. Nothing.

  Annoyance heated my cheeks as I read between the lines. I’m not dying, but I am avoiding you.

  After I spent all night preparing the perfect apology. That ungrateful assho—

  “All right,” Sunny said, plopping down next to me. “Let’s get this thing started.”

  I locked my phone and tucked it under my leg. Nothing to be done right now, I thought. But later...oh, later, Nate had some ‘splaining to do.

  19: Nate

  “Shit.” I wheeled my chair away from my desk and shoved my glasses onto my head. “This is shit. It’s all shit. It’s the shittiest shit that ever shat.”

  I glared, bleary-eyed, at the computer screen, where the latest draft of Zombitch was displayed. I’d been working on it for the last couple hours, and every single word I wrote sounded like, well, shit.

  “I’m broken,” I muttered, rubbing the heels of my hands into my eyes. “Zombitch is broken. I broke it.”

  Sunny’d have to find a new co-author. I’d have to find a new career. This was the end of my life as I knew it.

  Wheeling my chair back to the desk, I swallowed a yawn and forced myself to refocus on the screen. Rowena had just discovered that her twin was still alive, and resolved to find her. I had Sunny’s panels for this scene pulled up next to the document for reference. Rowena’s anguished face glowed out at me. What would she say here? What would she...