“We can go get whatever else you want this weekend, Mom,” I promise, crossing my pinky with hers and bringing my thumb up to my lips, sealing my vow with a kiss.
Angry clouds hover above our home as we pull into the driveway, hinting at the oncoming storm. Swiftly, we rush to grab everything from the car and race inside, not wanting to be outside once the drizzle begins.
Lemon and lavender are the first two scents that assault my senses as I stumble in behind Mom. The lack of grip on my sandals causes me to glide along the freshly waxed floors, almost falling on my ass had it not been for the staircase railing.
“Wow, Mom. I can see myself in the walls,” I praise, running my fingers over every surface, coming away with not a speck of dirt.
She said I get my extremist mentality from Dad, especially when determined, but she’s confused, because clearly, I get it from them both.
Speaking of Dad. “Have you talked to Daddy today?”
Somewhere from the kitchen, Mom shouts, “No. He’s too immersed in his case to text or call me back.”
The pain in her words causes my chest to ache. I’m used to not seeing my dad. He was a cop before I came along, so it’s been that way for as long as I can remember. But my mom, they had a life at some point, spent time together, longer than a couple of hours at a time. I don’t know how she does it…
“Want to watch a movie tonight?” she asks, popping out from behind a wall. My yes is immediate, anything to get that heartache out of her tone.
“I’m just going to shower first!” I call out, bounding up the stairs to my bedroom. Needing a moment of peace, I gently lock the door behind me and sag against it. The ridges of the wood knock against my spine. I sort of like the pain it brings, an ache that settles deep within my bones. It challenges me to focus on what really matters.
Shakily, I bring the tips of my fingers to my lips and beam.
I can still feel him, the pressure of his mouth on mine.
“Oh, boy,” I breathe.
How am I going to survive the weekend without him?
Scarlett Dane
CHAPTER XV
The garlicky aroma of my mom's bread is what pulls me out of the bath.I would have stayed in here, daydreaming of Mr. Ellis, had it not been for the tease of garlic bread and creamy chicken penne pasta.
Splashing out of the water, I grab two towels off the rack. Using one for my body and the other for my hair, I dry off swiftly, teeth rattling through the bone-chilling shivers.
My body is dry enough, I decide, before sliding into my lounge suit. The fabric catches a little on the droplets dampening my skin, but I force them on anyway, needing the warmth of the faux lamb interior.
Dressed and warm, I give my hair a bit of leave-in conditioner and move to join my mom downstairs. I choose to leave my phone on the bed, but at the last second, I run back and snatch it off the charger. I’m in the middle of a heated conversation between Dana and Jenna, while also kicking Christian’s ass at Cup Pong. I’m still waiting on Marie’s reply, but I know she’s in the middle of dinner at her grandmother’s house.
At almost six in the evening, I expect to hear my father’s voice as I descend the stairs, but the only sound echoing around the house is my mother singing along to the soundtrack of A Star Is Born.
“You’re giving Lady Gaga a run for her money, Mom.” I laugh, having to shout over her rendition ofLa Vie en Rose.
Twirling around the kitchen with a plate of food in her hands, she agrees, “You’re damn right.”
Typically, when Dad is home, we all gather around the dining table and eat as a family, the television off with nothing but our chatter to fill the noise. But Dad isn’t home yet. That only means one thing.
“To the floor!” my mom cheers, plate in one hand, sparkling strawberry lemonade in the other.
Plopping in the center of the living room, we shimmy until our backs hit the feet of the couch. Then, using our knees as tables, we set our plates on top and begin to stuff our faces with the garlicky, carb-y deliciousness.
We eat like animals, or at least that’s what we’ve been told, shoving our mouths with food with barely a breath in between, as if someone is going to come any second to snatch our dishes away.
“We should slow down,” one of us always says, the other agreeing before continuing the awful habit.
I’m trying to fit a ginormous piece of chicken in my mouth, when my phone lights up beside me. Sparing it a quick glance, I’m expecting to see a response from one of the four people I was messaging. But instead, I read the beginning digits of a number I don’t know.
“What the hell?” I mutter, setting my fork and plate down at my side.
