Page 107 of Roommate
“Boyfriend.” I yawn deeply. “Hang on a sec. Sit down.” I wave a hand at the couch and then leave the room to look for Roderick.
I find him standing in the kitchen with Zara, who has Nicole on her hip.
“Hey,” I greet them. “When did you sneak in?”
“Just a second ago, right after your mother. I brought you a lasagna, because Audrey told me about your dad’s accident.”
“Oh, wow. Thank you.” I guess I’m having that kind of day—with drama of such magnitude that the neighbor brings you a casserole.
“Seems like Roddy needs a piece, too, because he looks a little worked up.”
“I’m sorry I yelled at your mom,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I have some, uh, parent issues I’m working through.”
“Hey, it was kind of hot.”
His surprised smile is so cute that I have to step closer and give him a quick kiss. “Thank you for being my chauffeur and bouncer today. And heat up that lasagna. We’re going to need it.”
When I step back, Zara is blinking at us. “Something tells me I missed a few other developments.”
“You have no idea,” Roddy says cheerfully.
“Cool, cool,” Zara says. “Just let me know if we need to shuffle the schedule tomorrow to let Kieran visit the hospital. You know where to find me.”
“Nazagna,” Nicole says. “Eat.”
“Ah, Mama’s girl,” Zara says. “Let’s get home and find you a snack.”
“Cookie?” she asks, hopefully. The sight of her two neighbors kissing does not faze her at all. It didn’t seem to faze Zara, either, now that I think about it.
“We’ll see.” My boss rolls her eyes. “Night, guys. Reheat it with the foil on top.”
“Thanks, boss!” Roddy says. “See you in the morning.”
She departs, leaving Roddy and me alone in the kitchen. I glance toward the living room, dropping my voice to a whisper. “I have to go back in there, don’t I?”
“I tried.” His eyes sparkle. “But I’ll bring you a glass of an adult beverage. For courage.”
“Would you?”
“Sure. And remember—you didn’t create this problem.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, only I’ve spent my whole life believing otherwise. I created the problem just by showing up twenty-five years ago.
He gives me a gentle shove, and I walk toward the living room where my mother waits.
I find her on the sofa, her head in her hands. “I’ve always dreaded this conversation,” she says.
“That must be why we never had it,” I point out.
She looks up. “I couldn’t ever figure out how. I was protecting you. And I was protecting your father. How did you figure out that you’re not biologically his son? Was it really in a biology class?”
I shake my head. “Nah. I overheard a conversation outside of church. One of my teachers was gossiping with a friend. I was in a tree above them so that none of the old ladies would pinch my cheeks or ask me about school.” I used to hate the coffee hour because I didn’t like making small talk with adults. Sue me. “They were talking about families who had ‘oops’ babies.” I make finger quotes. “And the other woman said, ‘Well you know, Bert Shipley had the ultimate oops baby. He wasn’t even the father.’”
As I watch, all the blood drains from my mother’s face. “Oh my God.”
“Yeah.” I swallow hard, because I can still hear the sound of their laughter. “I still wasn’t ready to believe it was me. But then they mentioned Father Craig.”
Father Craig was a very popular priest who left Colebury right before I was born. Years later, I used to hear people wonder aloud why he’d left. I think I might be the reason why.
