“Are you blind!” Mom shrieks again. “There is no such thing as alone when you’re in the public eye or did you not take that class in ‘How to be a Celebrity’ school?” Whoa. She’s getting feisty. “I’m telling you right now, if you thought the karate shenanigans from the wedding picture went viral, this one—I won’t be able to show my face at book club again for months.” Sniff-sniff. “They’ve been calling me all morning. First Darla, then Gertrude.”

Fucking Gertrude, she’s always meddling in everyone’s business. Once, she tried setting me up with her niece, Rebecca—a divorcee with four kids, three dogs, two cats, and a bird. She was one of the most basic and boring-looking women I have ever seen in my life (based on the small photobook of pictures Gert rolled out for me).

Man did Gert take it personally when I said all that to her face, shouting about my apparent lack of manners. “It’s not my fault your niece has no eyebrows,” I told her. “And is that a mustache or a shadow? It’s so hard to tell.”

That wasn’t a fun book club meeting.

Plus, at that meeting, Gert ate most of the taco dip, which really pissed me the fuck off. Part of the reason I’m willing to read their stupid, shitty book selection every month is the taco dip tray I know is going to be at the meetings.

Gertrude and I had it out that night, let me tell you.

“Of course Gert is calling you.” I snort. “She can’t mind her own damn business, the old bag. And besides, who even uses the phone to make calls anymore?”

“That is not the point I’m trying to make and do not call our friends old bags!” Mom is clearly in the kitchen now, chopping some kind of vegetable on the cutting board, and I can’t help but wonder what she’s making Dad for dinner. Stew, probably, since she’s already getting it started. “This was not part of the plan.” Chop, chop, chop. “Now what are we going to do to fix this tangle!”

I chuckle, loving that she called it a tangle.

She stops chopping. “This isn’t funny.”

“I made the Chandler problem better.” She likes me now. She kissed me.

Women don’t climb on top of you and kiss you if they don’t like you. Am I right or am I right?

“I took care of it last night.” I yawn, giving Chewy a scratch on the top of his head.

“No, you made it worse! Now everyone is going to think you’re dating! Our point was to make it appear that you got along—we didn’t need you practically mauling each other in the street.”

Mauling each other on the street?

How does she know about that?

“Can you stop saying we like you’re the Queen of England or we’re on some publicity team together? I’m an athlete, not an influencer. I don’t give a shit what people are saying and I’m done running around for the media. It’s total bullshit.”

The doorbell rings, saving me from this inquisition.

“Mom, I have to go. Molly is here to take Chewy to the dog park.”

“Who is Molly?” I can almost hear her eyes narrowing suspiciously.

I roll mine. Mom probably thinks Molly is a hooker I hired to come blow me.

“She lives next door. She’s obsessed with animals, especially dogs.”

“Why aren’t you going to take Chewy to the dog park yourself?”

Now she’s going to nag me about the damn dog? Is there nothing I can do to make this woman happy? Why do I bother trying?

I scoot out of bed so I can throw a t-shirt on with the shorts I wore to bed, stretching. “I don’t know, Mom,” I answer testily. “She texted last night to see if she could hang out with him. I think there’s a boy she likes that goes to the same dog park.” But what difference does it make? If the kid wants to take the damn dog for a walk, why wouldn’t I let her? Why does my mother have to ride my ass about it, like I’m such a lazy dick who doesn’t care for his animals?

Besides, the extra exercise is good for Chewy’s heart, his mind, and his boxy little body.

Plus, having him out of the house lets me off the hook for a few hours so I can get some work done around here without getting interrupted to play fetch, feed him, or take him to pee. Or heavy breathing and slobbering.

“Don’t get all huffy. I was just asking,” Mom says, as if reading my irritated mind.

I sulk through the phone.

“Call me later—we’re not done with this conversation, young man. And check the internet!”

I hate it when she calls me young man and I hate when she tells me what to do. “Okay. Love you.”

“Call me back,” she tells me again, this time more sternly. “Love you.”