Page 89 of Sizzle

It takes me a minute to get the words up.

“I… met somebody.” It’s technically the truth. Even though I’ve known Elliot for years now, we only just met Joelle.

Christ, was it only been a few weeks ago?

“Oh, Alex,” says Mom, her voice going soft. “I’m so glad to hear it.”

“It’s not like that,” I tell her. “At least, not anymore. I messed it up.”

“I seriously doubt you messed it up alone, son,” she says. “What happened?”

“Um… You remember Elliot?”

Mom laughs.

“You mean your roommate and best friend since college who’s been in and out of our house on a weekly basis for the last ten years or so? That Elliot?” She laughs again. “I might remember him.”

My throat is too tight to speak. The silence drags on until Mom gasps.

“Oh! Oh, honey.” I can hear the tears in her voice and it’s that sound that finally pulls a tear from me. I swallow hard.

“It’s already over, Mom. I’m so sorry.”

“What in the Lord’s name are you apologizing for?”

“I know how much you like him,” I fumble for the words. “I guess I’m sorry he’s not going to be around much now.” If at all. God.

“I’m not quite convinced that’s how things are going to go,” she says. “Maybe you’d better tell me the rest of it first.”

That’s my mother. Growing up, all my friends thought she was psychic.

I clear my throat.

“There’s also a girl,” I say awkwardly. “Um, a woman. Her name is Joelle.”

Mom is quiet. Really quiet.

“Hello?”

“I’m still here, Alex,” she says. For a second, I swear I can hear her smiling. The hell? “Just processing.”

She’s smiling. It’s unmistakable in her tone.

“So, yeah,” I say because I don’t know how to make this less awkward than it already is. “It’s a bit complicated.”

“I can imagine,” says Mom. “My poor child. Did you and Joelle fall out too?”

“Sort of,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut. “It was kind of all three of us.”

“All three of you together, or all three of you falling out?”

“Both.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to apologize again when, a moment later, mom speaks.

“Alex, do you remember a friend of mine named Jamie?”

“Vaguely,” I say, rubbing my forehead. “She died when I was little but I called her Auntie J.” It had been some kind of cancer, I think. Mom had been devastated, though it was years later before I worked out what all the crying had meant at the time.