The Relationship Pact(11)

“I do expect you to be there tomorrow night,” she says, matter-of-factly. “You didn’t mention that you were not going to attend, and you come every year. So, show up with your date, please.”

I pilot the car around a roundabout while trying to determine how to handle my mother. Usually, I would change the subject and never actually address it to avoid an argument. But Bellamy’s voice keeps rolling around inside my head.

Stand your ground.

“If I do attend,” I say, “I will be coming alone.”

Her displeasure is evident. “You cannot come alone.”

“And why not?”

“For one, Jack bought you two tickets. Those are not cheap.”

“No one asked if I wanted them.”

She groans. “Larissa, cooperate with me, please.”

“I’ll tell people my date got sick. They’d probably be grateful I came alone rather than bringing an ill guest.”

“Can you just bring somebody so you aren’t sitting by an empty plate?”

I squint into the sunlight. “Why does the idea of sitting alone bother you so much? It doesn’t bother me. I’m great company. You should hear the conversations I have with myself.”

She takes a long, deep breath. I can imagine her looking at the ceiling with a hand on her neck, mumbling something quietly about God giving her strength.

“Can we not do this right now?” she asks. “I have a ton of things to do and arguing with my baby girl is not on the agenda today.”

“I’m not arguing with you. I’m just telling you I’ll come despite not agreeing beforehand like an adult should have the right to do. But I’m coming alone.”

“I don’t understand you,” she says, her voice clipped.

“That is obvious.”

“All I do is try to help you. I try to give you every advantage in the world. I get you tickets to events, invitations to banquets—I surround you with men who could take care of you someday and—”

My eyes about bulge out of their sockets. “Whoa. Hold up. I don’t know why you think I need taken care of.”

“Because you do. It’s not a personal fault. It’s the way life works.”

There aren’t words in the English language I can string together to accurately display my outrage and shock.

“I want you to have a great life,” she says, quieter this time. “I don’t want you to make the same mistakes I have.”

“I’m twenty-four. My job is to live my life and make mistakes so I can learn from them. I think maybe you didn’t realize that when you were young.”

She goes back to rumpling paper and I know she’s mentally checked out of this line of questioning. It’s what happens when a topic even remotely comes close to touching her past.

“I worry that you’re going to end up alone someday if you don’t start being serious about dating,” she says.

“Would being alone truly be the end of the world?”

“Yes. It would. You need someone to love you and support you and to be there to help fight the world alongside you.”

I can’t argue with her. She’s right. I want the relationship she’s describing … if it’s a real thing. And I’m not sure it is.

Mom grows quiet on the other end of the line. I can’t tell if she’s considering my stance or if I’ve hurt her feelings somehow. All I know is that I hate it when things between us get like this.

“I’ll be there tomorrow,” I tell her. Even as I say the words, I want to take them back.

“Thank you. Who will be your plus-one?”

“Nobody.”

“Larissa …”

I slow down for a puppy crossing the street. It takes its sweet time, its little ears flopping around as it chases a butterfly. I use the vision to take a long, deep breath and try to recenter myself.

“Men have evolved with the understanding built into their seedy, hedonistic little genes that they don’t need to be decent human beings to earn the affections of a woman,” I say. “And I. Am. Sick. Of. It. I’ll date again when I find someone who isn’t a dickhead.”

Or an athlete.

Once the puppy is safely across the street and into the arms of its human, I pull into Aunt Siggy’s driveway. I sit in my car, engine running, and stare mindlessly at Siggy’s bright red front door.

“Should I just arrange for a date for you?” Mom asks. “Because you are not coming alone. We paid for a plus-one, and it’ll look ridiculous for you to be sitting next to an empty plate.”

“God forbid,” I mutter.

“Okay. I have a solution. There’s a new third baseman on the Seahawks—"

“Mom. No.”

“He’s cute. He’s from an excellent family. He’s single. I ran into him in the offices last week, and he was sweet as pie. I’ve already planted a little seed about you—”

“I have to go,” I cut in, my limit hit for arguing with her.

"And he seemed to be interested. Of course, it didn’t hurt that there’s a picture of you in Jack’s office and—”

“I’m at Siggy’s. Can we resume this later? Or not, but I bet you’ll make me.”