The edge of the world is tinted with a blended shade of pink and purple. We sit in the car in silence, staring out the windshield, neither of us daring to talk to the other. It’s almost a blessing when Mary rolls up in her yellow Beetle and stops with her passenger door adjacent to Ozzie’s driver’s side. Her window rolls down, and the silver haired woman looks up at us. Her smile is electric, big and bright, one that could only be reserved for someone who means a great deal to her.

Ozzie tries to fight that same smile. His eyes are glowing, and he covers his mouth with a hand, wiping it across his lips like a washcloth trying to get rid of a food stain.

“Aren't you a sight for sore eyes?” she says. “If I’d known you were coming, I’d have got your room ready.”

Ozzie gets out of the car and so does the woman. She practically skips around the car until she reaches him. Stretching up on her tip toes, she puts her hands on his face and stares into his eyes. “I’ve missed you, my boy.” She plants a big, loud kiss on his cheek, and when they break apart, he shakes his head at her. The woman focusses her attention on me next. I wave at her as she studies me.

“Well, come on out so I can meet you.” She waves me over.

Slowly, I get out of the car and creep over to meet her. I hold out my hand, but she slaps it away and pulls me in for a hug, her fresh scent of dryer sheets and fabric softener surrounding me.

“She could have been a hitchhiker I picked up a few miles ago,” Ozzie says dryly before he introduces us.

“Is she?” the woman asks, not convinced.

He shakes his head, and she punches him on the shoulder.

“Well, go on! Introduce us.”

He scratches at the growing scruff on his chin, taking a little too long. I almost wonder if he’s going to bother at all.

“Mary, this is Charlotte. Charlotte, Mary,” he says, his tone frustrated.

She elbows him. “That’s hardly an introduction. Who is she to you?”

Another sigh. “A girl from the school paper. She’s doing a story on me.”

Mary snaps her head in Ozzie’s direction so fast I swear she gives herself whiplash. “No, really?”

He nods.

“Well, this certainly is shaping up to be a surprising day.” She makes for the driver’s seat, and Ozzie goes for the passenger side. “I don’t think so!” She points in his direction, her expression stern. “Sit your ass in the back. Didn’t I teach you any manners?”

If he wasn’t so angry with me, I have a feeling he would have offered, but she has no idea how complicated our relationship is, and I have no intention of telling her. Thankfully, neither does he.

We all pile in, and Mary turns the radio from low to off. Something tells me this social worker is a lady of many questions, and she's going to use her time with us wisely. “Where ya from, Charlie?”

“Hebbville.”

“Near Truro?”

“Not far from there, yes.”

“And you’re writing a story on Ozzie?”

“Uh huh.”

“And you’re okay with that?” She meets his eyes in the rearview mirror. I don’t turn to watch his silent response. “What’s the story about?”

I clear my throat. Instead of telling her what I was supposed to write about, I decide to let her know what I’m actually going to write about now. Maybe Ozzie will find some comfort in it. Or maybe he’ll assume I’m lying still. Probably the latter.

“It’s supposed to be a human-interest piece but also sports-related, so I thought it might be good—considering it’s for the university paper—that I write about the demands of a varsity hockey player. You know, how they juggle personal life with their schedule and school.”

“Oh. Well, that sounds interesting.” She beams at me.

“Mmm,” Ozzie says, though his agreement sounds more like a growl.

He definitely thinks I’m lying.

“So, you write for the college paper? Not a paper for the general public.”

“Well…I'm actually not on the paper. I’ve been trying to earn a spot all year, and the editor finally gave me a chance to prove myself. If he’s happy with the story, I’ll be on the paper next year.”

“Are you a journalism student?”

Ozzie leans forward to rest his arms on the sides of both Mary's and my seat. “Isn’t she the one that's supposed to be asking the questions?”

“She’s writing about you, not me.”

Mary drives slowly, well below the speed limit, though we don’t drive for long before we turn into a short driveway. The house in front of us is plain, and like most of the other houses on the street, it’s a simple bungalow with shutters. Hers has better landscaping, with a beautiful stone walkway to the house and planter’s pots with wild flowers not yet in bloom.

When we get out, the spotlight turns on near the door. It’s almost dark now, the moon a hint of white in the sky. Crickets chirp in the background. Though it doesn’t surprise me, she opens her door without unlocking it. Where I grew up, most people don’t lock their doors, but my house got broken into when I was younger, and my mom and step-dad became religious about it afterward.

Inside, she drops her purse on the table by the door before tossing her keys in a glass bowl in the shape of a cluster of grapes. I take off my shoes and set them neatly on the tray, beside the other shoes sitting in a perfect row.

“Come on into the kitchen, and I’ll make tea.”

I follow behind her, taking a seat on a wooden stool at the kitchen island. She putters about, filling a stainless-steel kettle with water before putting it on the stove and then lining up three mismatched mugs on the counter. The one closest to me reads Eat Me. There must be a story there somewhere. She plops a teabag into each of the mugs.

“I gotta use the bathroom,” Ozzie says. He starts to walk away but then turns back and levels his eyes on Mary. “Cool it with the questions, all right?”

She holds up her hands, looking all innocent-like. “I won't ask a single one.”

He nods. “I'll bet.”

She watches him as he walks away and leans to the right to look down the hallway corridor until the bathroom door clicks shut. “Ozzie never talks to me about girls so I have to know—quickly, before he comes back—are you dating? Or just having sex with him?”

“Um…” I swallow hard and sweat builds on my palms. There’s straightforward, and then there’s Mary. She must know there is no way I’m going to tell her if I’m sleeping with him. For all intents and purposes, she’s his mother. She’s asked me this question, but does she really want to know? I highly doubt it. “Well, I...I...we’re...I don’t really know what we are...and...”

“That’s a yes.”

“I’m not sure Ozzie would be okay with me talking to you about us. I mean, I’m sure he’ll tell you himself if he is.”

She waves me off. “Pish posh. You’re adults. I know he sleeps around. I’d be concerned if he wasn’t.”

“Right.” Awkwaaaaaard.

A screeching noise sounds, and I assume it's the bathroom door opening. Clouds of steam build over the spout of the kettle as Ozzie comes around the corner. He hops up on the counter near Mary. She fishes through the cupboards and pulls out a container. Then she hands it to Ozzie. He opens a corner and smiles. After he removes it completely, I stretch my neck, curious to know what’s inside. I try to think when I ate last, and my stomach rumbles so loud that Mary and Ozzie both glance down at my stomach. “Sorry.”

Mary snatches the container and hands it to me, but not before Ozzie pulls out four massive, chocolate-filled cookies, two for each hand.

I bite into one, taste the peanut butter first, followed by chocolate. Normally, I don’t eat desserts. I’ve been watching what I eat for a year and a half, and I try hard to eat healthy, but I can’t resist today. They are so good I worry drool will roll down my chin.

“Charlie was just telling me about your sex life.”

Oh, dear God. I almost choke on my cookie. She’s worse than my mom.

“Was she?” He takes a bite of his cookie, seemingly unaffected. “Did she tell you about my STD?”

I don’t freak out because I assume he’s messing with her.

“We didn’t get that far,” Mary says, smiling.

“Hmm.”

“Ummm,” I begin. The heat in this room has graduated from warm to stifling. “Could I use your phone? Mine is dead, and I should probably call a friend sooner rather than later if I want to get a ride back to Saint Martha’s.”

“What are you talking about?” Mary says, waving off my comment. “I assumed you were both staying the night.” The kettle squeals, and she removes it, holding the top as she pours water almost to the rim of each of the three mugs.

“Oh…I couldn't.” I glance at Ozzie, who won’t meet my eyes. There is no way he wanted me to stay here. And I don’t want to be where I’m not wanted. It’s easier for us if I leave now. “I should get back.”

“I insist. You're stuck with us. Right, Ozzie?”

He shrugs in the most what-the-fuck-ever manner. Mary doesn’t let it go unpunished. She slaps his shoulder. “Clayton, what is wrong with you? This isn’t how you treat girls. Be a gentleman, for crying out loud.”

“Please, stay,” he says without emotion. It’s like he’s reading from a manual on how to put a bookcase together.

But I don't have a choice. The cuckoo clock on the wall chirps nine o'clock. The only person I know who could come and get me is Emily, and she doesn’t have a car; the keys to mine are in my pocket. She could ask Brad and he could borrow his sister’s, but I don’t want to put him out. I could call my mom…but that would only make this situation more awkward when she insists on coming inside and talking to Mary. Plus, she’s probably a good two-hour drive away.

“Thank you,” I say to Mary.

She hands me my tea and I nurse it, staying quiet for the next half hour while Mary grills Ozzie about hockey and life. Thankfully, she doesn’t mention me again, but she tries to include me. I’m polite, though I keep my answers to a minimum. Yes, no, that’s about it.

After she finishes the last of her tea, she stretches and puts the mug in the sink after collecting Ozzie’s and mine. “I’ll go make up your room,” she says. “Those sheets haven’t been slept in for months, and they’ll be dusty.”

“Thanks, Mare.”

“Of course.”

She slips away and Ozzie and I pass the most awkward silence I think I’ve ever experienced. And Ozzie and I have had several epic ones today. “Is there an extra room?” I ask. “Because if not, I can take the couch.”

He chuckles. “Stay in the room. I’ll take the floor. She’s not stupid. She thinks there’s something between us, and if I take the couch, she’ll only ask more questions, which I’m really not in the mood to answer.”

“I can take the floor.”

“Don’t be a martyr. Just take the damn bed,” he says angrily. He slides off the counter and heads to the hallway, turning to me as he passes under the archway. “Are you coming or not?”

Holy grouchy. I want to say, No. You’re being a jerk, and it’s not fair. I’ve said I’m sorry and if you don’t want to accept that, then there’s nothing left for me to do or say. I’m not going to let you be a jerk to me forever just because you feel I deserve it. I know I do! I don’t need you to remind me. But I don't say that. I get up and follow him because what choice do I have? We’re stuck together tonight. For better or for worse. And if he asks me to get in a car with him again? I’ll run the other way.