He’s still going to hurt you, my brain agreed.You won’t be enough for him either.
Iwas too tired to argue with my head or my heart. Besides, I didn’t know whatthe point was. They were both right.
ChapterSeventeen
“Kay-bug,”my dad exclaimed as he pulled me into a hug. “I’m so glad you were able to gettonight off.” My dad, Eric Swift, was the soon to be retired CEO of HaymillChicken. He was ridiculously smart, ambitious, and ruthless at work. At home,he let my mom run the show and enjoyed being shuffled back and forth wherevershe told him to go.
Mymom, Dana, our household CEO, spent her days as a part-time recruiter for thelocal business bureau. She liked her job because it was flexible and a gatewayto all the town drama she could stomach.
“Iwanted to spend time with you guys,” I told him. “I never get to see you.”
“That’sbecause you’re trying to work yourself to death,” he grumbled, reluctantlyhanding me off to my mother.
“Hi,Mama.” I smiled at her.
Shetook my face in her hands and kissed my forehead. “More beautiful than ever.”
Herwords soothed an open wound in my chest and I relaxed a little, truly happy tosee them. She pulled me into a firm hug, further calming the gaping chasm thathad bothered me all day.
“Letme take your things,” I offered, leading them deeper into my apartment. Myparents had always been good-looking people and old age had done nothing tochange that. Sure, they were softer now than in their youth. Their attractivefaces still got wrinkles, no matter how many skincare products my mother forcedon them. And they weren’t toned-and-svelte-could-pass-as-fitness-model-body-doublesanymore. But their beauty had evolved into a dignified kind of handsomeness.They were like a living, breathing ad for AARP. So perfectly small-townAmerica, you wanted to crown them both and slap a “Mr. and Mrs. Successful AmericanCitizen” on them.
Iwas the opposite—wild. With pink hair to their perfectly cropped, perfectlymuted gray. I was lip rings and cartilage piercings to my Mother’s habitualpearls. I was boho hipster to their upper middle-class cardigan sets. It washard to believe I was their offspring. But not so hard to believe why I’deventually fled Hamilton like my tail was on fire. They had Claire and Cameronto show off at home. They didn’t need the black sheep tainting their golfoutings and church potlucks.
Settingtheir small suitcases down in the second bedroom I had spent the morningcleaning and organizing, I was surprised to see my parents had followed me intothe room.
Dad checkedhis TAGHeuerwatch. “We don’t have much time, do we?We got here later than I had hoped. Cameron’s car broke down outside of town—Ihad to help her before we could take off.”
Concernfor my baby sister flickered to life. We were six years apart, so we’d neverbeen super close, but I had always felt protective of her. “Oh no. Is Camokay?”
Mom scoffed.“Don’t be dramatic, Eric. She ran out of gas.”
Hefolded his arms over his chest and huffed. “She still needed my help.”
“Iswear that child would forget her hair if it weren’t attached to her body.”
Ismiled because it was true. “Glad it was only a minor mishap.”
Momturned to me, assessing my yoga pants and white tank top. “What time do we needto leave? How long will it take you to get ready?”
“Readyfor what?”
Shemimicked my exact expression. There weren’t many times where outsiders wouldsay I looked like my mother, but this was one of those moments where I knew wewere spitting images of each other. Nobody was better at looking completelydumbfounded than the two of us—usually because of other people’s idiocy. “Forsupper.”
Ilooked down at my clothes, realizing they wouldn’t pass my mother’s standardsfor leaving the house. “Oh, did you want to go out?”
Dadlaughed as though I’d made a joke. “Did we want to go out,” he stated, not as aquestion. “You’re always so funny.”
Igave my mother a helpless look. “What am I missing?”
“Thereservation.” She pulled her phone from her pocket and shook it in front of melike that would jog my memory. “They called earlier today,” she explained.“They wanted to confirm a table for three at seven?”
“They?”I asked, suspicion leaking through me, like my heart was a faulty balloon.
“Therestaurant,” my mother said slowly. I was currently the complete idiotreceiving her befuddled glare.
“Whatrestaurant?” I snapped, full-blown panic taking control of my tongue.
“Theone you work at, bug,” my dad explained in that patient tone I remembered himalways having. He was never rushed, never sharp, never frazzled—emotions leftfor my mother and me. “The one that’s so hard to walk right in.” He smirked.“Believe me, we’ve tried. It was thoughtful of you to book us a table. And howfun that we get to eat there with you. You’ll know what to order.” He smiled atmy mom. “And what to avoid.”
