The Last Boyfriend

her coat and scarf over the back of a chair on her way to the counter.

“That’s what I want to know.”

“You’re the one sleeping on the doorstep,” she said as she began stowing groceries. Unlike her living room, which he considered messy, and she considered a living room, her cupboards and refrigerator were meticulously organized.

“I wasn’t sleeping. I maybe nodded off for a minute, and that’s beside the point.”

“What point?”

“You knew. You knew what was going on, and didn’t tell me.”

“I don’t tell you a lot of things.” Eyes narrowed on him, she began plucking eggs out of the carton and laying them in the bin. “Be more specific.”

“You knew your father was sleeping with my mother.”

The egg slipped out of her fingers, hit the floor like a little bomb. “What?”

“Okay, you didn’t know.” Owen stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Now you know.”

“I say again, what?”

“My mother, your father.” At a loss, he pulled his hands free, rolled them in the air.

“Get out. Really? No.” She laughed a little, yanked off some paper towels, dampened them to deal with the broken egg. “You must’ve had some dream while you were camped at my door.”

“Yes, they are—and no, I didn’t.”

Still shaking her head, she dampened another towel, scrubbed off the tile. “Where do you get this? On a short trip to Bizarro World?”

“From me. Myself. My own freaking eyes.” He forked his fingers, pointed at them. “I went over to the house this morning. I walked in on them.”

Avery’s jaw dropped as she slowly straightened. “You walked in on your mom and my dad? In bed?”

“No. Thank God. They were in the kitchen.”

“Jesus!” Gaping, she took a step back. “They were having sex in the kitchen!”

“No. Shut up.” Appalled, Owen slapped his hands over his eyes. “Now I really know what Beckett means about images in the head. Oh God.”

“You’re not making any sense. At all.”

Start over, he ordered himself, because Avery had a point. “I went over, they were in the kitchen. Your father’s in his boxers. My mom’s wearing this, this little . . . thing. And they were . . . hands, lips, tongues.”

She stared a moment, then held up one finger. Turning, she opened a cupboard, took out a bottle of Glenfiddich and two lowball glasses. Without a word she poured two fingers in each, handed one to Owen.

She knocked hers back, took a careful breath.

“One more time. Our parents are sleeping together.”

“That’s what I said.”

“And you walked in on them, scantily dressed and groping each other in your mom’s kitchen.”

“I’m telling you.” Now he downed his whiskey.

When she began laughing, he assumed hysteria, but it only took a moment to recognize genuine humor.

“You think this is funny?”

“One part is. You walking in on them?” She pressed a hand to her belly. “Oh, oh! I wish I could’ve been there to see your face. I bet it was like—” She mimed exaggerated shock and horror, then fell into fits of laughter again.

He had a bad feeling she’d nailed it. To compensate he bared his teeth in a snarl. “I guess you’d have been, ‘Hey, toss some more bacon on the griddle for me.’”

“She was making breakfast. That’s nice.”

“Nice? You think it’s nice?”

“Yeah, I do. Don’t you?”

“I don’t know what I think.”

With a nod, Avery went back to stowing groceries. “Let me ask you something. Do you think your mother should be alone for the rest of her life?”

“She’s not alone.”

“Owen.” She turned her head, gave him a quiet look.

“I don’t know. No. No. It’s just that I never thought about it—her—that way.”

“Now that you are, do you think she’s entitled to have someone in her life?”

“I . . . yeah. I guess.”

“Have you got a problem with my father?”

“You know I don’t. Willy B . . . he’s the best.”

“He’s the best,” Avery agreed. “So you’re not pleased your mother’s with the best?”

“I . . .” He fumbled to a stop. “If you’re going to be all rational and mature . . .”

“Sorry. In this case I must. They’re good friends, longtime, good friends. So, they’ll be good for each other.” Smiling, she folded her market bags. “I tried to fix him up a couple times. It never worked out. I didn’t like knowing he didn’t have anyone. My mother did such a number on him.”

On both of you, Owen thought.

“Mom told me they’d been . . .” He rolled his hands in the air again. “A couple years.”

“A couple years?” Shaking her head again, she poured another round of whiskey. “Willy B, you’re so deep. Who knew? I didn’t have a clue. How could I have not had a clue?”

“None of us did. I started thinking you knew, and you hadn’t told me.”

“I would’ve told you, unless they’d asked me not to.”

“I get that.” He picked up the whiskey, stared into it.

“What did my father say when you dropped in?”

“That he’d better go put some pants on.”

She snorted out a laugh, then tossed her head back, let a rolling one loose. Owen found himself grinning.

“It’s a little easier to see the humor in it now.”

“Did you make that face?” She repeated her interpretation of shock and horror. “And kind of stutter? ‘Mom! What! You!’”

He tried for a cool stare as she had, indeed, nailed it. “I might have had a momentary moment.”

“A momentary moment.”

“At least I didn’t punch your dad. Ryder wanted to when I told him and Beckett.”

Avery lifted a shoulder. “That’s Ry’s default, but he wouldn’t punch Dad. Ry’s fine with punching assholes or bullies, but he loves Willy B.”

“He loves me, too, but he’s punched me before.”

“Well, Owen, sometimes you’re an asshole.”

She smiled when she said it, sweetly, then tapped her glass to his. “To our parents.”

“Okay.” He sipped the whiskey. “Strange day,” he said with a sigh. “You’re not pissed at me anymore.”

“I wasn’t pissed at you. Very much. And now I’ve figured out you’ve got an issue with sex.”

“What?” A close relative of Avery’s shock-and-horror look passed over his face. “I do not. Why?”

“See.” She lifted a finger off her glass to point at him. “I even say the word and you’re all flustered. Issues.”

“I don’t have issues with sex. I believe in sex. I like sex. I like lots of sex.”

“Strange. You kiss me and go into immediate brain freeze. You see our parents kissing and hit the panic button.”

“No. Yes. Maybe. Damn it, that has nothing to do with issues. Any normal person would have a—”

“Momentary moment.”

Smart-ass, he thought. She’d always been one. “A reaction to seeing his mother laying a hot one on a longtime family friend. And you and me? You know that wasn’t expected.”

“Actually, it doesn’t seem that unexpected to me. But then, I don’t have sexual issues.”

“I don’t have sexual issues.”