“You’re a psycho,” he spits out, loud enough to make the waiter drop a spoon.
The entire restaurant goes silent. I swear even the accordion player in the corner misses a note.
He throws his hands up. “I’m outta here.” Then he storms out, leaving me to bask in pure, unadulterated embarrassment.
The waiter steps forward carefully, like I might lash out and bite. “Excuse me, Miss, would you like the check?”
At least he has good sense. “Yes, please.” I press my napkin to my face—not to wipe tears that begin to surface, but to hide for a moment.
When the bill comes, I pay for both of us, then rise with what’s left of my dignity and leave with my head hanging low.
Outside, the sky is smeared with storm clouds. I reach my car just as thick raindrops begin to patter against the roof.
By the time I turn onto Main Street, the heavens have fully opened up. Spring rain lashes the windshield, thunder cracking across the sky like someone’s bowling in the clouds. Windshield wipers squeak across the glass in sad resignation.
Stopping at a red light, I ask the heavens, “What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I find someone I can actually trust? Someone who wants a meaningful relationship?”
The rain doesn’t answer, just pounds harder.
I grip the wheel, blinking away tears as I slowly step on the gas. Visibility is low in the storm, but at least no one can see me crying.
Chapter 2
It’s been a year since I’ve moved back with my parents after Andy and I had broken up over his breach of trust. I kicked him out of my apartment, but I couldn’t stay there by myself—too many downer thoughts—so I packed my suitcase and haven’t been back to my apartment in Unity Grove since. The lease ends next month, and I’ll likely just pay movers to pack everything up rather than face that empty space again. Amazing how a few walls can hold too many memories I’m afraid to face.
Mom flips another pancake onto the growing stack as I slice strawberries into little stars. The morning news drones on about changing weather patterns—Spring is finally here, and I couldn’t be happier. My hands and feet are constantly cold during the winter months, and I’ll be more than happy to shed the second pair of cotton socks I usually wear.
“You’re getting fancy with those,” Mom says, nodding at my berry art.
I shrug. “First graders appreciate the aesthetic. Makes them think I’m a culinary genius instead of just a desperate teacher trying to get them to eat something besides chicken nuggets.”
The kitchen fills with the smell of butter and maple syrup—comfort scents from my childhood that never diminish in power. I’ve fallen back into domestic rhythms here like I never left, like the past four years of independence were a fleeting dream.
Footsteps pound down the stairs, and Chrissy bursts into the kitchen in a flurry of perfume and jingling bracelets.
“Morning,” she chirps, grabbing a piece of toast.
My eyes perform a double-take at my sister. Gone are the baggy pants and oversized hoodies, replaced by a floral sundress, jewelry, and curls in her hair. “You know, I miss my tomboy sister sometimes.”
Chrissy rolls her eyes but can’t hide her smile. “People change, big sis.”
“It wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain boy named Theo, would it?” I wiggle my eyebrows.
“Shut up.” Her cheeks flush pink.
Dad shuffles in with little Noah trailing behind, the morning paper tucked under his arm. “Morning, ladies.” He plants a kiss on Mom’s cheek and ruffles my hair like I’m still twelve.
Noah barrels into my legs. “Maisie! I got a new race car!”
I scoop him up and plant a kiss on his forehead. “Did you? Is it super fast?”
“The fastest!” he exclaims, arms stretched wide.
Mom sets plates stacked with pancakes on the table, her attention split between serving breakfast and watching Blitz Kitchen on the small countertop TV. The cooking contestants scramble to arrange their creations while the host counts down dramatically. Some things never change—namely Mom’s obsession with competitive cooking shows.
“Five, four, three . . .” the TV host shouts.
“Use the tweezers for the garnish!” Mom yells, waving her spatula at the screen.
