The bus to my parents’ house was quick and easy. I told them not to worry about picking me up. I had always been a bit of a nerd for public transportation.
The Wisconsin air had a biting chill, still unfamiliar to me. I stood on the porch of my parents’ new home, the red door staring back at me like a warning. I shifted the overnight bag on my shoulder and noticed a new garden of colorful flowers in the front yard.
I had barely lifted my knuckles off the door when it opened.
“Little tree!” Dad pulled me into a bear hug. He was tall and broad, with the kind of sturdy build that suggested he’d spent years working with his hands. His flannel shirt was tucked intowell-worn jeans, and his thick-soled boots scuffed the hardwood as he stepped forward.
“Hi, Dad.” I laughed as I hugged him back.
The warmth of the house hit me instantly, carrying the comforting scents of kimchi and fried food. A pang of nostalgia engulfed me. It smelled just like it did in my childhood home, back when Landon and I were teenagers sneaking kisses in the backyard.
Mom loved to cook, and she was talented in the kitchen. If only that gene had passed on to me. Baking, on the other hand, I could manage.
“Kira,” a sharp voice called from the kitchen. Mom appeared in the doorway, her expression controlled, her gaze slicing through the air as it landed on me. “You’re finally here.”
In many ways, she was the opposite of her husband: petite and sharp-featured, with dark hair pulled into a tight bun that emphasized the fine lines around her piercing hazel eyes. She wore a neatly pressed sweater and slacks, and the only hint of warmth on her face was the faint pink flush on her cheeks.
However, she was similar to Dad in other ways. They both had a drive unlike any other, a dedication to bettering themselves that knew no bounds. They both loved deeply and for long, committed to each other and to family.
“Hi, Mom.” I walked over to give her a hug. I was only an inch or two taller than her. Mom returned the hug briefly.
“You made it in time for lunch. Come help me finish setting the table,” she said, already turning back.
In the kitchen, the air was warm with steam and spiced oil. Mom moved efficiently, but there was a tightness to her motions—chopping scallions too fast, stacking plates with a bit more force than necessary. The rice cooker clicked as it finished, and she opened it with a puff of steam. My stomach growled on cue.
I didn’t need a microscope to see what was really bothering her.
She wasn’t happy when I mentioned applying for the art residency program, and that was what brought me here today. At least as far as she knew.
“So,” she said finally, spooning kimchi into a porcelain bowl, “what will you be painting while you’re here this weekend?”
“Not painting—drawing.” I took the bowl from her and set it on the table. “With charcoal. I have a few ideas I wanted to talk to you and Dad about.”
“Hmm,” she muttered, focusing on the grilled chicken. She said it like she was entertaining a toddler’s fantasy. “Why are you bothering with that echo room residency again?”
I swallowed the sigh climbing up my throat. “The Chicago Echo Studio Art Residency is a solid program. It’s a good opportunity for me.” I hesitated a beat. “It was Landon’s idea.”
The plate of chicken slipped from her hands and shattered on the kitchen tile.
For a second, all I could hear was the sharp intake of breath between us and the ticking of the stove burner.
“Shit,” I said under my breath, reaching for the broom.Good job, Kira.
Her eyes snapped to mine. “Landon Cole?”
She didn’t bend down to help, just stood frozen in place, her hands still hovering midair like she hadn’t quite registered the noise.
“Kira,” she said, voice sharper now, “how long have you been talking to Landon again? Have you forgotten how badly he treated you?”
I straightened with the dustpan, pressing my lips together before I answered. “Just a few months. He moved back to Chicago. We’ve been friendly.”
Two friends who shared a kiss.
Her expression shifted, shock giving way to something else. Something between reluctant acceptance and pure exasperation.
“It all makes sense now. You wouldn’t even be applying for this ridiculous residency if it weren’t for that boy,” she snapped. “It’s like he waltzed back into your life with a bat and is trying to wreck it all over again.”
I stared at her, the weight of her words landing harder than the broken ceramic at our feet.
