A Bird in the Oven Page 2

  Mom.

  I rush into the bedroom in a panic, but Liv has not heard a thing. She is still asleep. She has rolled onto her stomach and stolen my pillow. My t-shirt is bunched up in the middle of her back, which leaves her ass on full display. She does not even notice the chill from one cheek being out in the open. Her Marvel underwear are so far up her crack, I do not understand how she can continue to sleep with that kind of annoyance.

  I take exactly point five seconds to enjoy the sight and say a silent prayer of gratitude to Captain America for this moment.

  Then I rush down the stairs before Mom’s typical lack of boundaries kicks in.

  She is standing in my kitchen, holding a to-go cup of coffee that smells awful even from across the room. “Oliver, did you forget about our breakfast reservations?”

  “We had breakfast reservations?” Obviously, I did forget.

  She frowns. “That’s my fault. I must’ve forgotten to add it to the shared family computer calendar.”

  My phone is still upstairs on my nightstand. I am not going to risk getting it to check and see who forgot what. “We can still go out to breakfast! Let me get dressed!”

  She cocks her head back and squints at me. “I’ve already eaten. It’s almost ten. You look awful, honey. Are you feeling all right?”

  Not currently, no. My skin is prickled with sweat and that vile scent from drinking too much the night before. I have a horrible hangover combined with an increasing case of panic. If I can get out of this potentially bad situation by dragging Mom out of the house to anywhere—without showering first—then, I shall take it.

  “What else were we supposed to do today?” I do not doubt my mom wishes to begin Christmas shopping early. “We can go do that.”

  She studies me more carefully. Her gaze sweeps me from head to— She reaches my midpoint, blushes, then averts her eyes. “Oh! I should have called first. Is, um, Isabella upstairs?”

  I glance down. The urge to vomit appears, and it has nothing to do with being hungover. I am still the unlucky owner of an erection that my sweatpants do not hide. At all.

  “We broke up,” I blurt.

  “What?” Mom forgets all about our shared embarrassment and crosses the kitchen to wrap me in a hug. “When? Why?”

  I pat her on the back while holding her at a distance with my other arm. “A few weeks ago. She wanted to attempt a trial run at parenting with cats. My allergies foiled her plans.”

  Mom steps back, her expression a familiar one of disappointment. She sighs. “Why do you keep doing this to yourself?”

  “I was born with allergies. I did not do anything to myself.”

  “Really, Oliver.” She shakes her head and makes her way back to the counter to reclaim her black juice. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. I just don’t understand why you set yourself up for failure like this. You’re not getting any younger. Life is passing you by. You’ve already achieved so much. Your father and I just want to see you settled down and happy before we pass.”

  “Mom, you are sixty-three,” I argue. “I have plenty of time to settle down.”

  “Not if you keep picking the kind of women you insist on wasting time with!” she shrieks.

  Ow. That hurts.

  I fill a tall glass with water from the fridge, intent on rehydrating. I can’t think straight. I need to mount a solid defense in approximately one minute, judging by the look in Mom’s eyes.

  “What about Olivia?” Mom pleads. “She’s been by your side through thick and thin!”

  “Yes,” I concede. “Because we are friends. That is how friends are supposed to behave.”

  Mom plants her hands on her hips and shows me the determined expression that promises she is not going to drop this conversation so easily. “Friends come and go in life. More often than not, they part ways.”

  “Okay…” I have no idea why she is saying this.

  “She went to Pitt. You went to CMU.”

  “That is correct.”

  “You shared an apartment after graduation when you were just starting out.”

  Those two years were difficult, but… “Rent is extremely expensive in the city on a starting salary.”

  “You live next door to each other!” Mom throws her arms out in exasperation.

  I shrug. “There were two condos for rent side-by-side at a price we could not afford to pass up. Also, you know how Liv is. She needs someone to look out for her, and she has not found a reliable man to do that yet.”

  “Oh, ho.” Mom chuckles. “Just like you haven’t found a reliable gal yet.”

  “What can I say? Times have changed. Dating is brutal in the modern era.” I read this recently on a website and memorized the words. I knew I might need them for exactly this discussion.

  Her expression softens. She is going to change tactics. “Oliver, I know you were hurt in high school. You planned and saved and screwed up your courage, but…”

  “But another boy asked her first, and she went with him. Game over.”

  “You never even told her,” Mom insists, latching onto my arm like physical contact will sway me. “I don’t understand that. Please, at least help me to understand, honey.”

  “What was I supposed to say? I am in love with you. Do not choose him. Pick me instead.”

  “Yes!” Mom shouts.

  I still have not imbibed enough water to tolerate that decibel level. To be clear, no amount of water would make a noise like that more tolerable.

  I wrap my mom in a hug. She only wants what is best for me. She has worked so hard to get me where I am today. I kiss the top of her head to ease her disappointment in me. “Olivia and I are friends. That is the only type of relationship we share.”

  “Let her go,” Mom begs, her voice muffled against my shirt. “You both need to move on with your lives instead of spinning your wheels.”

  I wish I could, but…I am simply not wired that way.

  “I will make a deal with you.” I peel her away from me to look her in the eyes, so she knows I understand what I am offering. “If it will make you feel better about me being an actual adult, I shall host Thanksgiving here this year.”

  “Oh, Oliver.” She pats my cheek then goes back to her coffee. “You live on takeout and microwaveable meals. You can’t possibly cook Thanksgiving dinner all by yourself!”

  “I’ll help him,” a sleep-laced voice offers.

  Mom’s gaze flits between me and the woman standing in the doorway who’s wearing nothing but one of my t-shirts. I can’t read her expression, but it might be either angry or pleased. Shocked, maybe?

  “No.” Mom sighs, but her tone is final. “We’ll host Thanksgiving at my house as usual. Olivia, I’m sure you have plans with your family to attend to.”

  Oh, no. This situation has not occurred in eighteen years, four months, and sixteen days. I almost forgot what it feels like. Mom intends to expel Olivia from my life, whether I like it or not.

  I might not have much time left, so I cannot afford to waste any of it.

  “No, we will host it here,” I say as calmly as I do not feel.

  Mom blinks at me, then turns her disappointment on Liv. “Dear, why don’t you go home, so Oliver and I can have a private conversation?”

  Liv looks at me for guidance. She will not abandon me, but she does not like to make problems for me either. Her expression is much easier to read. She is torn and does not know what to do.

  That makes two of us.

  Tick tock, tick tock the clock inside my head whispers.

  “Liv is not going anywhere. We are hosting Thanksgiving here,” I say again to buy myself a little more time.

  “There is no good reason for you to do that.” Mom’s tone is losing patience.

  “I already put a bird in her oven, so yes, there is!” I blurt.

  My head immediately regrets that choice.

  A flurry of expressions and words assault my ears.

  Mom’s mouth drops open before she screa
ms, “What?”

  Liv’s eyes widen. She slaps a hand over her mouth and the other over her stomach.

  That is an unfortunate choice of reaction because Mom immediately rushes into action.

  I think I just screwed myself.

  3

  Olivia

  “You just rest here. I’ll get you some juice and some crackers, and we’ll have you feeling better in no time.” Mrs. Cucinelli pats the hands that she literally folded over my stomach for me after depositing me on the couch and forcing me to lie down.

  Ollie hovers at the periphery of the room, looking wildly guilty.

  As well he should.

  The second his mom is out of earshot, I hiss, “What did you do?”

  “I’m sorry!” he whispers back. “I did not have time to think! Your baby fever is obviously contagious!”

  “That’s not how that works!”

  We both clam up when Mrs. Cucinelli returns with the promised light breakfast that will “send that morning sickness running for the hills.”

  She holds the orange juice to my lips like not really being pregnant might make my arms inoperable. “Here, sweetheart. Just sip, don’t chug. Oh, you poor thing. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it might not let up after the first trimester like so many doctors promise. I had morning sickness all morning, afternoon, and night for the whole nine months with Maria, Gina, Ava, Collette, Eliza, and Oliver!”

  “Those are all of us, Mom,” Ollie says, confused.

  She glances over her shoulder at him. “I know! Pregnancy is so much harder on women than people realize; it’s a wonder any of us do it more than once.”

  I cough juice into my nose. Ollie’s family is hardcore Roman Catholic, so I’m pretty sure they don’t actually believe in contraceptives. Every sperm is sacred, or something like that.

  “Oh, dear, no, no! We mustn’t eat or drink lying down!” She pulls me upright even though she’s the one who laid me flat to begin with. Tears shine in her eyes as she beams at me. “I’m just so pleased. So very, very pleased. I was losing hope this day would ever come. My prayers have been answered!”

  Ollie looks like he’s going to throw up. I don’t feel much better even though I’m definitely not suffering from morning sickness.

  “Oh!” she goes on after ping-ponging her smile between Ollie and me for way too long. “I have the perfect idea. You can announce the pregnancy to everyone when you host Thanksgiving dinner.”

  I choke on my juice some more. Ollie chokes on air.

  Mrs. Cucinelli pats my back while offering Ollie a knowing smirk. “Just friends, hmm? I suppose you thought your father and I would be disappointed that you didn’t choose marriage before baby? Oh, honey. I hope you know by now how much we love and support you. I’m so happy you decided to tell me the truth!”

  She turns to me with barely a pause to breathe even though I’m pretty sure I’m hyperventilating. “While I respect your decision to perhaps not get married even though you’re expecting, I really hope you’ll consider it. My Oliver will make a fine husband. He’s handsome, smart, loyal, funny—”

  “I believe we are beyond the point of selling me to her,” Ollie interjects.

  I lean around his mom to glare at him. “I could do with a little more selling, actually.”

  Mrs. Cucinelli laughs like I’ve told the joke of the decade. She gives me a conspiratorial wink. “You let me handle the family. If you want to wait until after the baby is born to get married, then I will run all the interference necessary to make that happen.” A sob slips out of her mouth that jars me. She wraps her arms around my neck and hangs on for dear life. “Thank you, Olivia. Thank you so much. You’ve made me the happiest mother in the entire world, and I just know Oliver is going to make you the happiest wife and mother, too!”

  I glance over her shoulder to Ollie, who has his face cradled in his hands. A startling realization washes over me.

  I can’t do it.

  I can’t be the one to crush her hopes and dreams for her son.

  She pulls back and wipes the tears from her cheeks, a hint of blush staining them as if she suddenly thinks she’s being melodramatic. “I’m going to run to the store and get you some supplies. You two are so busy working all the time, and since I’m the first to know, I feel like I should help you pull off this secrecy until your big announcement.”

  I simply nod and watch while she can’t help but tidy the living area that’s already a thousand times more orderly than my condo before she waltzes out the front door in a flurry of smiles and tears of joy.

  Long after it’s just the two of us, silence reigns supreme. He has his thinking expression on.

  “Ollie,” I whisper, different kinds of tears choking my voice. “I don’t want to break her heart.”

  I blink, then he’s kneeling on the carpet before me, but he won’t meet my gaze. He wraps my hands in his own. His voice is low, almost the brush of a whisper. “I am sorry. Truly. I am responsible for this misunderstanding, so I will tell her the truth. You will not have to break her heart. I will. But…Liv?” He raises his black-brown eyes that are framed with the thickest, lushest lashes. “You want a baby anyway. Maybe I could give you one.”

  I stroke his cheek, unused to the feeling of so much scruff there. With all the chaos this morning, he hasn’t even gotten to shave yet. “Ollie, that’s really not how it works. I know your mom is kind of old-fashioned, but I wish that for you, too. You should give a baby to a woman you really love.”

  He glances back down to the carpet with a sigh. “I know, I know. Romantic love and love between friends are not the same thing.”

  “Yeah.” We had plans to decorate the outside of our condos for Halloween today. Now, I don’t know if we’ll even be able to look at each other for a few weeks. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to look Mrs. Cucinelli in the eyes again. My heart feels painful and sluggish in my chest to think this might be the beginning of the end of me and Ollie. I knew it would probably happen someday. I just didn’t have time to prepare for the idea it would be today.

  “Will you consider it?” he whispers, still staring at the floor. “You are exploring options for artificial insemination. At least I would not be a stranger.”

  The implications of his words slap me in the face. “Oliver Leonardo Cucinelli, were you snooping on my computer?”

  He snaps his wide-eyed gaze to mine. “You asked me to fix it. All those sites were what crashed it in the first place.”

  Oh my God. All those sites…

  At least half of them feature Joe Manganiello look-alikes.

  I’m never going to be able to look Ollie in the eyes again.

  4

  Oliver

  I do not like this feeling. Not at all. Dealing with uncertainty is not in my wheelhouse. Things either are, or they are not. It is hard enough to fly under the radar on a normal day, but when things don’t fit into neat little boxes? I cannot cope.

  And now this string of lights isn’t working. I have been through the entire row of miniature bulbs with the tester. There is no reason for this problem. None.

  “Oliver!”

  “What?” I snap then immediately regret it.

  Mr. Hooper looks like I kicked his dog. He does not own a dog. “I, uh, wanted to return your battery pack and thank you. Having trouble with the lights?”

  “I am having trouble with a lot of things right now,” I mutter. “You should get a dog.”

  That would make me feel much better. It would not solve the problem of my mom calling every day to ask how Olivia is feeling. It also would not make Liv speak to me again, but I like dogs. I am not allergic to them. I would certainly buy treats for Mr. Hooper’s dog and perhaps borrow it in exchange for use of my battery packs. I think I need a support animal to get through this life transition. I hate transitions.

  Mr. Hooper’s expression is obviously confused, but he smiles after a few minutes of silence. “Well, now…I don’t think I’m responsible enou
gh to take care of a dog, but I could help you with your lights.”

  “Fine.” I throw them on the ground and gesture for him to take a look. I am not having any luck anyway, and we are a solid week behind schedule getting our Halloween decorations up. More problems I do not have room for in my schedule. “The tester says they’re fine. They should be working. Maybe the tester is broken.”

  Mr. Hooper slides his hand along the string like his hand is a tester. “Um, son?”

  “I am not your son,” I snap again. And feel bad again. I am not a naturally mean person. I dislike being mean to people when I am overwhelmed.

  “No,” he says slowly. “No, you’re not. I just wanted to make this hard truth a little easier to swallow.”

  I am also now confused. “What are you talking about?”

  He points to the outlet box on my front stoop. “They’re not plugged in.”

  Ugh. I feel like an ass. I have felt like an ass all week. I forgot how much I dislike this feeling. It has been a long time since I have messed up this bad. Pressure builds in my chest and stings behind my eyes. I am outside where people can see me, so I sit on the concrete stair beside the lights that are definitely not plugged in and rub my hand over the rough surface. Back and forth, back and forth…

  Mr. Hooper sits beside me, but he stares at the decorations littering the front lawn instead of at me. “I’m sorry I called you son, but you remind me of my son. Can I help you somehow, Oliver? Something is obviously bothering you.”

  Words are not usually my strong point, but I say an awful lot of them to my neighbor. He hears the whole miserable story of the pickle I have gotten myself into.

  “Hmm,” he hums. “I see.”

  That is terrible advice. Perhaps I have not been clear enough. “What am I supposed to do now?”

  “I can’t tell you that.” Mr. Hooper shakes his head. “What do you want to do now?”

  “I want everything to go back to normal!” I yell. It does not make me feel any better.