She blinks at me, her eyes wide and hyperfocused on me like she can read my actual thoughts.

Don’t think about sex.

Heat creeps up my neck.

Her stare is sort of erotic, in an intense-pixie kind of way. And she’s wearing a thin white T-shirt that reveals the outline of her bra underneath and I have to force my eyes to remain fixed on hers.

“You’re right,” she says finally.

What were we talking about?

I wait for her to say more, maybe apologize for her own rude behavior, or maybe scold me for inappropriate thoughts, but she turns back to her work.

I stay at the table, eating my food in silence, which actually isn’t as tense as I thought it would be.

Shouts and laughter and clapping echo from the living room.

“What are they doing in there?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer for so long I think I’m being shunned again, but then finally, “They’re watching Antiques Roadshow.”

“Uh, you mean that program on PBS where people have their old junk valued?”

“Yep. Jude has them make their bets when each item is first presented. They have to guess how much it’s worth, and whoever gets closest to the actual value wins the pot.”

“Huh.”

I keep eating as she keeps typing, and I relax into the silence. It’s better than I thought it would be. The sounds of conversation continue to trickle in from the living room and Reese’s gentle tapping on her computer is actually kind of soothing and the food is pretty damn delicious.

And then my phone rings and it’s my mother.

I’ve been dreading her call. I don’t want to lie, even by omission, but I can’t ignore her either.

“Hey, Momma.” I stand up from the table and take my bowl to the sink.

“Hey, baby boy. How is school?”

“It’s great.” The words are like dust in my mouth. I grab a glass from the cupboard and fill it.

“How’s Abby doing? I was talking to Martha earlier and she wanted me to tell you to have Abby call her. Would you let her know? I know you kids are real busy, but she’s starting to worry. And you know how Abby gets. If things aren’t right in front of her she forgets they exist.”

My stomach churns, the food suddenly a lump of lead in my belly. I take a long drink of water before I respond. “She’s fine. I’ll tell her to call.” Or not.

Maybe I can text Abby or have someone from the team pass along the message for me. Not necessarily a lie.

She keeps up a steady stream of conversation while I wash my dish, asking about my grades and track and if I’m getting enough sleep and brushing my teeth. Typical mom stuff.

Then after a small silence, when I think we might be done, she drops the bomb. “I wanted to let you know we’re selling the house.”

“What? Why?”

I grew up in that house. Granted, it’s not any kind of mansion, just a modest one story out on the south side of town. Not quite middle class, not quite the worst neighborhood in town. But I can’t believe they would sell their home of over twenty years.