Sticky Situationship (It’s Complicated)

8. Brock

Brock

I ’d rather be anywhere but here, standing outside my mother’s apartment in Chelsea, tempted by the smell of roast beef wafting into the hallway. My stomach growls, but if I thought my mom would buy any of my excuses for skipping Sunday night dinner, I’d turn around and hightail it home to my cold, empty apartment where the only dinner waiting for me is the untouched lasagna I ordered the other night, still sitting in my fridge..

But she wouldn’t. Not after what she witnessed.

Plus, she may have answers. To questions like, How’s Libby doing? or Has she asked about me? Questions I’m dying to ask, even if they reveal how bad I have it for the physician next door. Even if I have to endure the third degree from my mom and sister tonight.

My mother’s the lucky one. Surely, she’s seen Libby, talked to her even, since four days ago when the girl I fell for stormed out in front of both of us. I haven’t so much as caught a glimpse of Libby in the hallway or the lobby. And definitely not, as she warned, in my apartment.

At least, I didn’t bring the roses. No, that bouquet didn’t last ten minutes after what happened. The minute my mom left, I marched the flowers to the trash chute at the end of the hallway and dropped them in, glass and all, not bothering to wait for the usually satisfying thud that echoes up when trash lands in the dumpster. Nope, I walked away, just as Libby did.

The elevator dings, and I turn to find my little sister emerging, snowflakes still clinging to her hair. When she see me, she lights up as if she’s seen a celebrity. “I’m surprised you showed up.”

“Like I had a choice.”

Her eyebrow hitches at my grumbled response, but Charlotte still wraps her arms around me for a tight hug before pulling back to study my face.

“Man, this girl really did a doozy on you, didn’t she?”

I heave a sigh. I didn’t even make it inside before the inquisition begins. “How much did Mom tell you?”

“Not nearly enough.”

She would say that.

My mother, with her impeccable timing, swings open the door. “I summarized the key details for her.”

“It wasn’t the play-by-play I needed.” Charlotte, an off-off Broadway performer, part-time barista, and full-time drama queen pouts. She hands my mom her weekly delivery of dark-roast beans, leaning in to accept the peck my mom presses to her cheek.

I head inside and shrug off my coat, hanging it on the coatrack. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” I say in a last-ditch attempt to nip this conversation in the bud. “Things are over between us.”

Charlotte follows me inside and hangs up her wool coat. She slips off her boots and drops them to the hardwood floor with a clatter. “That’s not what I heard.”

The knowing tone knots my stomach. So much for not rehashing every sordid detail. At least, the promise of a good meal dulls my annoyance. I follow the savory aroma of roast beef and rosemary to the kitchen and swipe a handful of crackers and a wedge of some sort of fancy cheese off the platter laid out on the counter.

“Wine, Charlotte?” Mom asks, as if she doesn’t already know the answer.

“Please,” Charlotte chirps, already retrieving two wineglasses from the cupboard.

I slump onto a barstool at the island while Mom uncorks a bottle of red.

“So,” Charlotte begins. “Spill it, Brock. What exactly happened with this whole girlfriend/not girlfriend situation?”

I roll my eyes. “Can we not do this, right now?”

“I can wait until we sit down at the table, if you’d rather.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Then right now it is.” She leans forward with gleaming eyes. “I want all the juicy details Mom left out.”

“There are no juicy details,” I grumble. “It’s over. End of story.”

Mom raises an eyebrow as she pours two glasses and hands one to Charlotte. “You sure about that?”

I’m saved from answering by my stepfather, Robert, wearing his usual navy cashmere quarter zip, who comes in and claps me on the shoulder. “Brock! Good to see you. Need a beer?”

“God, yes.”

“What’s this I hear about woman troubles?” he asks, opening the fridge.

Not him, too. Now, I really wish I hadn’t come. Robert, an anesthesiologist, uncaps the frosty pilsner and passes it to me. I take a long pull, grateful for the brief escape from the nonstop questions.

“He’s being tight-lipped,” Charlotte informs him as he pulls her in for a hug.

“I’m not being tight-lipped. You want to know what happened? Fine, I’ll tell you” I say, hoping offense is a better position to play. “I met someone a few months ago, and when Mom wouldn’t stop trying to set me up by conveniently inviting women here for Sunday night dinner every other week, I told you guys I had a girlfriend. So you'd all stop pestering me.”

“But this girl wasn’t actually your girlfriend?” Robert seems confused as he pours himself a tumbler of scotch on the rocks.

“Not exactly,” I admit. “I met Libby about a week after I moved into the building. She lives next door, and her fire alarm went off late one night, and I—”

“Came to her rescue,” Charlotte interjects, faking a swoon, as if it’s the most romantic thing in the world.

I frown. “I took care of the problem, and we…hit it off. Libby made it clear she was too busy to commit to a serious relationship, so we kept things casual.”

“Casual as in friends with benefits?”

“Charlotte!” my mother scolds, glancing up from the stove where she’s stirring something in a pot.

“What?” Charlotte protests. “That’s how things work these days, Mom. You can just fu—I mean, hang out without being committed.”

I take another swig of beer. A long swig as my mother eyes me. I shrug. She’s a smart woman. It’s not as if she didn’t see enough the other day to put two and two together. “It worked for us.”

“Clearly,” Charlotte drawls sarcastically, lifting her glass to her lips.

“So then what?” Robert presses as if he can’t wait for me to continue the story.

“Then,” I start, picking at the label on my beer, “as I got to know Libby, I realized how much I…liked her. Then Jake suggested—”

“Jake? Jake!” Charlotte exclaims. “You took dating advice from Mr. March? Please tell me you didn’t.”

I promptly ignore her outburst and whatever feud she and Jake have had going on ever since we all went out together last New Year’s Eve. “Jake suggested I let her know how I feel,” I continue in Robert’s direction. “You know, drop a hint and gauge her reaction.”

“And I take it that didn’t go well?”

“Actually, I didn’t get that far.” I shoot my mom a look.

She takes my eye contact as an invitation to jump in. “I interrupted their, ahem, evening before Brock confessed his feelings for Libby.”

I don’t know that I’d go so far as to say I was about to profess my love that night, but my mother is certainly right about interrupting the evening.

“I don’t understand,” Robert says, resting a hip against the counter at my mom’s side. “Why would you stopping by change his plan?” He turns to me. “Couldn’t you have just waited until your mom left?”

“I would have,” I say. “Except—”

“Except I asked Libby if she’s the girlfriend Brock’s been talking about for months,” my mom admits.

“Ouch.” Charlotte wrinkles her nose.

“Exactly. And Libby also happens to be one of my residents in my program.”

“Awkward.”

“You can say that again,” I say. “Within minutes, Libby was gone and made it clear things were over between us.”

Mom turns from the stove, wiping her hands on a dishtowel, and shoots Charlotte a look. “Libby was quite upset when she left. Visibly troubled at the news.”

I run a hand through my hair, frustration building. “Yeah, because she thinks I have a girlfriend!”

“Had you two agreed not to see other people?” Charlotte asks.

“No.”

“Brock,” she says, shaking her head. “You are an idiot.”

“My thoughts exactly,” mom chimes in.

WTF?

“What do you mean?” Robert asks, clearly as confused as I am. “Why is Brock an idiot?”

“Because,” Charlotte says as if lecturing a classroom full of kindergarteners, “If Libby was really interested in only no-strings-attached fun, she wouldn’t care if Brock had a girlfriend. Her anger proves she’s jealous, which in turn proves she has feelings for Brock.”

I open my mouth to argue then close it again. I blink, the realization of her logic hitting me like a torrent of water shooting out of a fire hose straight at my chest. Could Libby have feelings for me, too?

“You should talk to her,” Robert says, his voice gentle. “Clear the air.”

Should I? The idea flickers like the wick of a candle ignited for an instant before it goes out. I shake my head. It wouldn’t do any good. It’s too late. “Libby made it crystal clear she doesn’t want to see me again.”

Mom circles the counter and rests her hand on my back. “Libby is an exceptional young woman. She’s a brilliant physician who’s ambitious and dedicated and caring. But she’s also under a lot of pressure, right now. Robert’s right. You should talk to her. Or I could put in a good word for you, if you’d like.”

I nearly choke on my beer. “Mom, no!” I sputter. “Please don’t interfere any more than you already have.”

She holds up her hands in surrender. “Just trying to help, dear.”

“Has she…said anything?” I ask, my voice quiet.

My mom holds my gaze, watching me carefully. “She hasn’t,” she admits. “But I saw her this morning at the hospital, and she looks like hell.”

I almost wish my mother hadn’t added that last bit. It makes everything a million times worse, because it’s my fault Libby’s hurting. I haven’t been honest with her, and she rightfully thinks I’m an asshole who doesn’t care about her feelings when, in reality, that couldn’t be further from the truth.

Charlotte’s eyes soften with genuine concern. “What are you going to do, Brock?”

There’s no doubt in my mind I have to do something. The thought of never seeing Libby again, never hearing her laugh or feeling her curl against me, makes my chest ache. I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t at least tell her the truth, even if it changes nothing.

I drain the last of my beer and rise from the stool. “Any chance I can take dinner to go, Mom?”

Charlotte beams, clapping her hands together. “That’s the spirit! I expect full details…and full credit when you and Libby are officially a couple.”

I roll my eyes then glimpse a smile tugging at my mom’s lips as she exchanges a knowing glance with Robert. Then she turns to me. “I’ll pack up enough for two.”