The look my mother gave me was one of disbelief. “Are you taking things at her pace?” “I’m serious, Ma,” I snapped. “We’re just friends. I haven’t touched her.” Mam visibly sagged in relief. “So, you didn’t do, uh, let’s call it the deed, with Shannon—” “Jesus Christ, no, Ma!” I barked, interrupting her before she caused permanent trauma to my brain. “Oh, that’s good,” my mother breathed. “You’re a good boy.” A good boy? Was I a bleeding dog?
