My heart clenches at that, and I keep my eyes on her until she turns down Willow Ave and disappears from sight.
Only then do I close and lock the door, flipping the sign toCLOSED.
Sophie.
My mom glides by me with a broom, a gentle smile on her face as she starts sweeping the front. I head to the register to finish counting. Our interaction starts replaying on a loop in my head, and I don't even feel embarrassed about thehappy endingsexchange. I can only remember how Sophie laughed so carefree and true. I want to see it again, I want to see her again. Hopefully soon.
"Just like the white winged dove, sings a song, sounds like she's singin'..."Mom sings gently to the music in her head, bending to dump the dustpan into the trash while I finish counting and start organizing the deposit.
"Think she'll be back?"
"Odds areveryfavorable, sweetest heart," Mom smiles, twirling around the store as she continues to clean up. I grab the drawer out of the register and smile at her words, hoping she's right.
Something about that girl felt... right, and I really,reallyhope she stops by on Monday.
Chapter Six
Paul
She's making her famous baked ziti.
It's the first thing I notice when I walk through the front door of my childhood home—the scent of garlic and oregano smacking me right in the face.
My stomach rumbles, and I realize I haven't eaten since this morning—breakfast at the diner with Sophie. I sat across from her as she talked about the scheduler calling today and the articles she'd read on maintaining a positive mindset during chemotherapy.
She sat there, talking optimistically while enjoying her waffles, like she didn't have a care in the world. I had to force the eggs down my throat, washing them down with the bitter coffee. I was good at pretending, apparently. Sophie didn't suspect a thing.
Sophie.
The thought of her happy face at breakfast, contrasted with the devastation I left her in, makes me nauseous. I know it'll be suspicious if I spontaneously vomit all over my mom's rug, so I try to force it down.
"Paul?" Mom calls from the kitchen, hearing the front door close. I feel like I'm suddenly sixteen again, sneaking back into the house after curfew. That same itch crawls up my spine—thatoh-shit-I'm-caughtfeeling.
I take a deep breath, but it brings no relief as I hear her footsteps approaching.
"Honey, is that you?"
"Yeah," I answer, my voice coming out rough. I toe off myshoes and kick them toward the rack, clearing my throat and plastering on a smile. "Hey, Ma."
When she finally comes into view, my normally composed mother looks a little frazzled—but visibly relieved to see me.
Her short red hair is tousled like she's been running her hands through it, her biggest tell when she's stressed. She's dressed in her comfy house clothes—a faded greenStarling Cove Football MomT-shirt, those stretchy black pants she always wears around the house, and black fuzzy slippers snug on her feet.
This sight is a familiar comfort to me—coming home from football practice to her greeting me at the door with a hug, then ushering me straight into the kitchen for dinner. My dad would arrive at work minutes later, kiss my mom, and slip into his usual seat at the dining room table like clockwork. We'd make casual conversation while Mom spooned whatever she'd made onto his plate. He'd ask about football, about school, my friends, and girls. Mom would fill my plate to the brim, fussing over her O'Connor men with quiet pride.
Right now, I ache to feel even a shred of that ease—because all I feel is sick.
"Paul Francis, what in the world is going on?"
She demands while storming over to me and pulling me into a hug. I melt into the embrace for a second, drawing what little comfort I can from my mother's arms after the day I've had.
"Ma–"
"You texted me that you're going to be staying here for a couple of days, and thennothing!I tried texting Sophie, but my messages won't go through. Did she block me? What in the world is going on?"
She pulls back slightly to study my face, concern tightening the smile lines around her eyes. "Are you guys fighting?"
I barely suppress a wince, guilt stabbing sharp and sudden inmy gut.
