I stretch my legs across the pale blue comforter, wiggling my bare toes. No stilettos here, no tight skirts or anything designed to turn heads. Just cutoff jean shorts frayed at the edges from too many washes and a tank top that’s so soft it practically melts against my skin.
In Cleveland, I’m Raven—sharp edges and a sharper tongue, always armed with a comeback and an escape route. Here, I’m just Lena. Lee to those who’ve known me since before I had front teeth.
“Lee.” Mom’s voice floats up the stairs. “Come help with dinner, sweetheart.”
“Coming,” I call back, feeling a smile spread across my face without having to force it.
I bounce off the bed, my feet finding the exact spots on the hardwood floor that don’t creak—a skill gained during years of sneaking in past curfew.
The house smells like summer, Dad’s barbecue sauce already wafting through the air. It’s a family secret recipe, supposedly passed down from some great-great-grandfather who cooked for a general during the Civil War.
Dad insists it’s historically accurate. Leo and I maintain he got it off the back of a ketchup bottle in the nineties and changed it just enough to claim ownership.
As I descend the stairs, my hand slides along the banister worn smooth from years of the same movement. Photos line the stairwell wall—a visual timeline of the Carter family history.
My parents’ wedding, Leo and me as infants, family vacations, graduations. Little squares of perfection, neatly framed and arranged.
Mom stands in the kitchen, her blonde hair—a shade or two lighter than mine thanks to her colorist—pulled back in a neat ponytail. She’s wearing white capris and a navy blue top that makes her look like she stepped out of a catalog.
She’s stirring something in a bowl, but looks up when I enter, her face breaking into a smile that creates tiny crinkles around her eyes.
“There’s my girl,” she says, abandoning her mixing to pull me into a hug. She smells of that expensive perfume Dad buys her every Christmas. “It’s so good to have you here, sweetheart. But are you sure you’re okay? It’s not like you to come home for this long. Or… that suddenly.”
This is about the ten thousandth time she’s asking me. “Yes, Mom,” I say, rolling my eyes but hugging her back just as tightly. “I missed you all, that’s it. Promise.”
“Are you sure?” She sighs. “Are you in trouble?”
“Mom, come on,” I say as soothingly as I can. “I’m twenty-eight and not twelve. I don’t need bailing out of any trouble.”
“You’ll be eighty-eight and I’ll still ask,” she retorts, releasing me to return to her mixing. “It’s in the mom handbook,page thirty-seven. It clearly states that you should never stop questioning your children.”
I laugh, leaning against the counter. “Well then. If the handbook demands it,” I quip. “What culinary masterpiece are we creating tonight?”
“Your dad is doing his barbecue chicken and burgers. I’m making potato salad and those skewers you and Leo always fight over. Speaking of which…” She gestures to a pile of vegetables on the cutting board. “… your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to make these into something edible.”
“Challenge accepted.”
I grab a knife and start to chop a red pepper into neat chunks. The repetitive motion is soothing, requiring just enough attention to keep my hands busy but leaving my mind free to float.
“How’s Cleveland? And the new apartment, are you still liking it?” Mom asks. “It was so nice of Piper to help you out. I still can’t believe she’s married now.”
Shaking my head, I work my way through my mom’s mountain of questions. She’s like a damn hydra, though. Each answer leads to ten new questions, and I freaking love it.
I finish chopping the vegetables and begin sliding them onto skewers. Pepper, mushroom, zucchini, repeat. When I’m done, I leave Mom to it and walk outside.
Dad stands at his command post, right next to the enormous stainless steel grill that Mom calls his midlife crisis.
As always, he doesn’t wear his glasses when he’s working the grill. Which is probably good with all the smoke billowing around him as he flips burgers with the precision of a surgeon, spatula moving in practiced arcs.
He’s wearing the Grill Sergeant apron Leo and I bought him for Father’s Day five years ago. Its once-bold lettering now fadedfrom countless washings. A beer sweats in his free hand, and he looks completely in his element—king of his backyard domain.
“How’s it looking?” I ask, carrying the tray of vegetable skewers onto the patio.
Dad gives the skewers an appraising look. “Colorful. Healthy. Everything a side dish should be.” He leans closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “But between us, the meat is still the star of the show.”
“I heard that, Henry,” Mom calls from the kitchen window, her superhuman mom-hearing powers fully intact. “And those vegetables are the reason your cholesterol isn’t through the roof, so show some respect.”
Dad winks at me, then raises his voice. “Yes, dear. Vegetables are God’s gift to mankind. I worship at the altar of fiber.”
