Not really. But I’m not going to belabor the point.

“All I’m saying,” she continues, “is you don’t want to leave him alone with that woman. He’s a man and he won’t be able to help himself.”

“Oh God.”

“That’s simply the way men are.”

“He’s not an animal,” I snap at her. “He’s a decent person. He’s not going to cheat on me because the opportunity arises. He wouldn’t do that.”

“Wouldn’t he?”

“No! He wouldn’t!”

And I believe that. I really do.

“Fine, Sam’s a saint,” my mother snorts. “But… all I’m saying is be careful, Abby. Don’t tempt fate.”

Maybe I won’t mention to my mother that we invited Monica to have dinner with us. I get the feeling she won’t approve.

Chapter 14

“Do we really have to do this?”

Sam is being his usual antisocial self and kicking up a fuss about having Monica over for dinner tonight. I called to remind him to put the lasagna I made in the oven, and he’s taking the opportunity to piss and moan about how he doesn’t want to do this. I’m sure he must realize it’s futile though—Monica is coming, whether he likes it or not.

“Yes, we have to,” I say.

“Do I have to wear nice clothes?”

“Yes.”

“And by nice clothes, you mean…?”

“I mean if you open the door in sweatpants and that T-shirt with the rip in the sleeve, I will murder you.”

“Okay. Gym shorts then. Got it.”

I roll my eyes at the phone. “I’m going to trust you’re joking.”

“Relax, Abby. I’m putting the lasagna in the oven as we speak while wearing my tuxedo.”

“Sam…”

“I just don’t understand why we have to do this,” he sighs. “We’re paying for her to go to grad school. We’re going to cover her expenses when she quits your company. Why do we have to have dinner with her?”

“You don’t like to have dinner with anyone.”

“I like to have dinner with you.”

Well, that’s true. But he’s averse to most social interactions, except with his closest friends. He’s okay with having dinner with his mother, but he’s thrilled with the arrangement where we only get together with my parents a couple of times a year.

“I’ll be home by a quarter to six, okay?” I say to him. “Just… please try to be good.”

“I’ll try to try.”

I don’t know what he’s so worked up about. He seemed to like Monica enough when we gave her a ride home that other night. Although I have to admit, there’s a small part of me that’s glad he isn’t all that excited about having dinner with the twenty-three-year-old girl who’s pregnant with his child.