It had affected so much of what he was able to do, and he now had a limp that got worse in correlation to the pain. The military had refused to allow him to re-up, not that he’d wanted to. If they had told him he had to finish the two months remaining on his four-year tour, he would’ve told Uncle Sam to go to hell. It’s amazing how life is thrown into perspective in the face of death.
At the sound of an engine behind him, he turned and saw his mom driving up the long driveway. It was his favorite aspect of the property and, as soon as the weather had turned and the ground thawed, one of the first projects he’d tackled. Beautiful old magnolia trees lined the gravel on both sides, and at the end of the drive, where it met the road, were two gigantic columns, stone carvings of eagles atop both. Set into the masonry was carved the estate name, Pembrooke, lending an air of sophistication and extravagance that he was sure the property had once deserved and would again. That is, if the hours of manual labor he was logging paid off.
Sure, it meant sacrificing time on his evenings and weekends, but he didn’t mind. After a tour in the Army, working as a judge advocate general, or what was referred to as a “JAG” officer, and shuffling around disciplinary paperwork, manual labor in Virginia’s heat was a breath of fresh air.
He lifted a hand in greeting to his mom. He was used to her popping in fairly often. She liked to fuss over him now that he was back.
He packed up his work materials and dropped them in the shed out back that he’d turned into a small workshop before going inside. At the door, he carefully shed his dirty shoes and yelled that he was washing off before dinner. He headed straight to the shower to rid himself of the dust and wood shavings he was covered in. The grime stuck to his sweaty skin and was difficult to wash off in the stream of soft well water, but after a few minutes of scrubbing he felt like he had sanded his own skin down to smooth again.
He dried off, threw on a pair of comfy sweatpants and an old law school T-shirt, and padded downstairs barefoot.
His mom was watching the television from the navy sofa, currently the only piece of furniture in the living room, which was still waiting on a fresh coat of paint for the walls and tile to be laid around the fireplace. She had on one of the HGTV shows she loved, where the couples saw multiple houses and pretended to debate over which one to buy even though they’d already purchased their home before filming. She smiled when he leaned over the back of the sofa to drop a kiss on her forehead.
“Hey, honey. Hope you’re okay with lasagna for dinner, because I already threw it in the oven.”
“Sounds great, Mom.” He loved her lasagna, so it was more than okay with him, but the woman used it as a weapon. She only ever cooked it on special occasions or when she had something to tell him and was worried about how he would take it.
His mom and Kelsi’s mom, Karen, had always plied the two of them with lasagna. They would get them stuffed full, then break some important news to them while they were in a food coma. It could be something big, like a death in the family, or something small, like when he was five and wanted to wear his spiderman costume to school every day and his mom had to tellhim that she did need to wash it at some point. This happened often enough that Kelsi had even started calling it “Bad News Lasagna,” and the name had stuck.
His mom wouldn’t tell him what it was until after he’d eaten, though. This he knew from experience. So, he sat and made idle chatter with her about her day. She told him way too much information about the town’s postman and librarian being spotted together in the stacks by the pharmacist, how her garden was flourishing and she’d have plenty of tomatoes to bring by for him soon, and the beautiful sermon her pastor gave that morning about everything having a purpose that had inspired her to swear off killing the spiders she found in the house.
Through it all, Dylan sat there, impatiently waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Finally, after his fork hit his plate—empty of his second helping of lasagna—she twisted her fingers in front of her nervously for a second before looking up at him seriously, her blue eyes holding his, the same shade as her own.
“So, Dylan. As your mother, you know the most important thing to me is that you’re happy, right?” Before he could even nod, she added, “And I want you to give me grandchildren while I’m still young enough to do things with them.”
He choked on his spit, now even more nervous about where she was taking this conversation. If she had yet another girl she wanted to set him up with, he was going to hop in his boat and drift away with the tides. The number of times he’d politely turned down the women thrown at him by his mother was too many to count. She had an uncanny gift for sniffing out any single woman close in age to him and within a thirty-mile radius. But not one of them had measured up to his expectations, and he was bored of the awkward conversations. Plus, they alwayswanted to hear stories of his time in the military as though he were some sort of hero. Those memories haunted him enough at night—he didn’t need to dwell on them during the day as well.
His mom continued on, oblivious to his internal struggle. “I’m only saying this because I know how you feel about Kelsi.”
That name,hername, caught his attention. “Kelsi?”
“Yes.” His mom chewed her lip for a moment before saying the words that would change the course of his life.
“Kelsi’s moving home.”
The words echoed around in the room like the aftershock of an explosion.
He paused, weighing how to react. Aiming for casual interest, he fought to keep his expression blank and pushed his dark-brown hair back from his forehead, grateful for the second where his expression was hidden from her view. “Oh?”
“Yes.” He heard the breath whistle through her nose as she stifled a soft sigh. “She broke up with her fiancé.”
At that, Dylan’s interest was fully piqued. If he were a dog, his ears would have shot straight up. “That’s rather sudden, isn’t it? Did something happen?”
“I think what happened between her and her ex is none of our business, Dylan, unless she decides that it is. We don’t go around talking about other people behind their backs.”
He snorted a laugh. “Don’t act as if that’s not exactly what you, Karen, and Banksy all do when you get together for your weekly cocktails.”
It was true, too. Each week they met, rotating houses, and the hostess of the night would pick a random cocktail recipe to prepare for the others. They’d been doing it for as long as Dylancould even remember. Dylan had overheard enough of their conversations on the nights his mom had hosted that he could confidently call bullshit.
“Well, of course it is, but I’m your mother and I have to try to set a good example for you, even when you’re all grown up.” She grabbed her fork and pushed it around her plate, moving her uneaten lasagna around. “I won’t tell you Kelsi’s story, though. It’s your job to make her trust you again, and she’ll tell you herself when she’s ready.”
He bristled at her insinuation. “What if it’s Kelsi who needs to earn my trust, Mom? Why do you thinkIhave to put in the effort?”
She didn’t know anything about what had happened between them all those years ago, and he definitely wasn’t in the mood to dive into it now. Not when he barely understood himself.
She shook her head. “That’s not what I mean, Dylan. Any relationship takes work from both sides. I’m warning you that although you’re still upset with her, she may be upset with you too. You both need to set aside the past and work to move forward.”
