My phone buzzes with a message, and I grab the device. What if it’s her? My pulse sprints for the first time in days, then slows when I read it.
Mom: Did you know that the flowers on your front porch need water? The plants too.
What? How would she know? I start to reply when another message lands. This one is from my sister.
Hannah: Did you know that brothers who get book recommendations from sisters and then do dumb things don’t deserve recommendations from sisters?
Hold on. What the hell is happening with this ambush from the women? My fingers fly as I try to reply to…well, both of them.
Mom: Did you know that Zamboni is happy to see me?
I pop out of the tub so fast. Of course Mom would fly down to give me a piece of her mind. I change into sweats and a T-shirt, then rush down the stairs, checking to see if I’ve missed any other messages from her.
As I scroll through our thread, I arrive at the bottom of the steps, where my traitorous dog is waiting hopefully by the door, tail wagging.
As I open the door, I metaphorically duck, sure she’ll be lobbing mom-bombs with her bare hands the second she sees me.
“Ford, I can’t believe you made me come down here. I’m nearly done packing up my good china,” she says with an annoyed huff.
“Why don’t you have someone pack it for you?” I ask, then instantly regret it. Of course she’s not going to let anyone touch her good china.
She gives me a dismissive wave of her hand. “Let’s pretend you didn’t ask me that.”
“Fair enough,” I say as she sweeps in and shuts the door. I scratch my head. “Also, how did Imakeyou come down here? I didn’t see any messages from you saying you wanted to talk. Or warning me that you were coming.”
Not that she’d ask for permission, but still, this is out of the blue, even for her.
With a pfft, she whisks past me. “I didn’t bother to send one. Sometimes an ambush is what you need.”
I arch a brow. “What’s going on?”
She strides over to the couch, sits down, and arranges herself neatly with crossed legs, setting her red purse on the coffee table. “How are your ribs? Do you need anything?”
I blink, taken aback. I figured she’d come to reprimand me. “They’re okay.” I flash back to three minutesago when I ran down the stairs—they actually didn’t hurt at all. “But you’ve been texting and calling about my injury. We’ve talked a few times. You didn’t need to come down here to check on my ribs.”
“That’s true. I didn’t. But I did come down anyway. Do you need anything? Ice? Ibuprofen?”
I shake my head. “I saw the doctor two days ago. She said they’re actually healing.”
“Did you drive?”
“I took a Lyft.” I’m still thrown off by her questions and the fact that they’re so…normal. She’s not tearing me apart. But there’s time for her to launch a mom attack.
“That’s good. But it’s also sad. You could’ve asked Skylar to drive you.”
“Mom—” I start, but I haven’t even told her. I join her and slump down on the couch, the weight of all my mistakes dragging me down. The next words scrape my throat. “We split up.”
She simply nods and says, “I know, dear.”
I sit up straighter. “How do you know?”
“I had a meeting with her earlier today.”
“She mentioned it?” That doesn’t sound like Skylar. She’s good at keeping our secrets.
You don’t have any secrets with her anymore, you dumbass.
“Of course not. I was able to figure it out.”
