My mother’s voice is comforting, and if I thought I could get away with it, I’d run to her arms and have a good cry. But I don’t want the trouble her questions would uncover. “Hi.” She gazes up at me from the leather couch as she pushes hair out of her face. She sits cross-legged, as if she’s a kid, and is typing on a laptop. “I made brownies, if you want one.” The thought of rich chocolate is too tempting to resist, and I say, “I’m going to make hot cocoa to go with mine. Want some?” “Yes, please.” Mugs thud on the counter as I put them down, and I reach for the refrigerator door. “How’s the book coming?” My mom writes erotica, which is kind of funny when you consider her eighteen-year-old daughter is still a virgin. But nobody knows what she really does, because she tells people she writes freelance to avoid embarrassing me. “Pretty good.
