“Elijah Alexander, what is wrong with you, child?”
“Nothing,” I say as calmly as possible. “You just … go. I’ll fix the blanket and use the restroom. You get Dorothy some leftovers.”
“What is under that blanket?” She crosses her arms over her chest?
“What?” I narrow my eyes.
“I wasn’t born yesterday. You’re acting like you used to act when you broke something and didn’t want me to find out. You might be a grown man now, but you still lie to your mom like a ten-year-old boy. What is under that blanket? Did Roman get it dirty with his bare feet?”
“Yes. Just let me have it cleaned. I don’t want you to worry about—”
“No!” Dorothy yells before cupping her hand over her mouth.
My mom turns toward her while I shake my head so hard it makes my neck hurt. Dorothy’s eyes ping-pong between us. I silently plead with her.
“No … what, dear?”
“It wasn’t Roman,” she mumbles from behind her hand.
“Dorothy, it’s okay. He’s not going to get into any trouble.” A nervous laugh infiltrates my words.
“It was me,” she says, dropping her hand from her mouth. “I got blood on your quilt. I’m really sorry. I will replace it if it doesn’t come out in the wash.”
“Dorothy, I’m not worried about a few drops of blood. I’ll get them out.” Mom shoulders past me and removes the throw blanket. “Oh … I guess it’s more than a few drops. Did you faint face-first or something?” She cocks her head, inspecting the smudges too much … way too much.
“Yes, a little lightheaded.” I grab Mom’s shoulders to steer her out of the bedroom.
She brushes me away, shooting me a scowl before returning her attention to Dorothy. “Well, looks like you have plenty of color in your cheeks now.”
Dorothy presses her palms to her cheeks, patting them gently.
“Better get used to a little blood, dear. You could potentially see a lot of it as a nurse.”
“I’m fine with blood.” Dorothy acts a little offended.
It’s not the right time to get offended.
“Just not your own. That’s pretty common.” Mom heads toward the stairs.
Thank god!
“No. I’m fine with my own.” Dorothy chases after my mom like she has a point to prove.
No points need to be proven. We just need to get the hell out of here.
“I didn’t get lighthea—”
Dorothy claws at my hand covering her mouth.
“Let it go!” I whisper in her ear.
“Elijah Alexander!”
Here we go …
I remove my hand.
“What in god’s name are you doing to her?” Mom stands halfway down the stairs with a look of horror etched into her face.
Dorothy curls her hair behind her ears and lets her hands flop to her sides as she releases the world’s biggest sigh. “We had sex. I chose doggy position, totally forgetting about my knees. I’m so sorry. I should have said missionary.”
Closing my eyes, I rub my temples and drop my chin to my chest. How is this my life?
“Oh …” My mother stretches that “oh” out for many seconds. “I see. Dorothy, we’ll meet you downstairs. I need a few minutes with my son.”
“Okay.”
Okay …
Damn! Dorothy holds no remorse in her voice. No embarrassment. No concern for the fact that I’m about to be grounded for life. Yes, I feel certain my mother would ground me—at thirty-eight.
The pat pat pat of Dorothy’s steps fade, but the slight creak of the steps gets louder as my mom inches toward me. I can’t look at her. There is a good possibility I will never be able to look her in the eye again.
“Eli?”
“Mom, I—”
“I’m so incredibly proud of you.”
“What?” My head snaps up.
Yep, it’s pride that shines along her face, feeding her smile, glistening in her eyes.
“Way to go! I’ve wanted this for you for months. The right woman who would drag you out of your cave of desperation and depression. A woman so completely different than Julie, but who would adore both you and Roman. A woman with a zest for life. A woman willing to take risks like a quickie at your parents’ house.”
Blink.
Blink.
Blink.
“Um …”
Blink.
Blink.
Blink.
“I don’t know if Dorothy is necessarily a risk taker. I think that if she’s on the spectrum, then she just became a little fixated on … proving something,” I say.
My mom won’t stop grinning at me. Normally parental pride is a good thing. Not now. Not when fucking Dorothy Mayhem doggy style is the reason for Mom’s glowing pride.
No.
Just … no.
“What was she trying to prove?”
“We’re done talking about this.” I brush past her to the stairs.
“You’ll tell me Friday.”
“I’ll never tell you. Sorry, Mom.”
Mom packs leftovers, but I can tell by the horrified expression on Dorothy’s face that she will not eat them.
“Thanks for brunch. It was better than I imagined.” Dorothy gives my mom a sincere smile.
Mom chuckles. “You are most welcome here anytime, Dorothy—with or without Eli.”