I remember it like it was yesterday, the sound of their laughter floating down the hallway, the creak of the bedroom door as I pushed it open, the way Andy’s face had drained of color and Lindsey had clutched the sheet to her chest.
I hadn’t asked for an explanation. I didn’t need one. I packed my suitcase and drove straight back to Mom’s.
“Can I just eat my pancakes in peace?” I say, stabbing at them with little enthusiasm. The once-appetizing food now looks like rubber, and each bite requires monumental effort to swallow.
Any more talk of my love life, and I’ll lose my appetite completely.
Mom raises an eyebrow but doesn’t press further. She takes another sip of juice, her wedding ring clinking against the glass. Twenty-five years of marriage has given her the patience of a saint—and the misguided belief that everyone should experience the same.
I manage a few more bites, swallowing past what feels like a rock stuck in my throat, trying to act like the emotional grenade she’d just lobbed at me hasn’t gone off.
But of course, it had.
“What happened between you two, anyway?” she asks quietly, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin like we’re having a casual meal and not standing on the ruins of my love life.
I drop my fork and push my chair back. The scrape against the hardwood floor is jarringly loud in the quiet kitchen. This conversation has overstayed its welcome. “I have to get ready for work.”
She lets out a soft sigh as I turn and walk out of the kitchen. Better not look back. If I do, I might cry. Or snap. Or both, which I had done during Thanksgiving last year and felt extremely guilty about it for weeks
All dressed and half-prepared for another day of lessons, I step outside and let the spring sunlight warm my skin. The morning air sweeping in from the mountains smells of trees and grass and crystal clear water—a scent that always puts me at ease. I breathe in deeply before I spot a U-Haul truck next door.
Someone must be finally moving into the Parker house.
The place had been empty ever since Mr. and Mrs. Parker packed up and left for Florida to spoil their new grandbaby shortly after I moved back here.
I pause, keys dangling from my fingers, and study the two-story colonial with faded blue shutters. I’d gotten used to the quiet next door, to the comforting nothingness of an empty driveway and a front porch overtaken by spiderwebs that would make Charlotte proud. But I do miss them. Mrs. Parker always brought pie for the holidays—her cinnamon apple crumble was worth every calorie—and Mr. Parker invited us over for summer barbecues where he’d flip burgers in his “Kiss the Cook” apron and tell the same three dad jokes that we always laughed at.
A burly man in a U-Haul uniform wrestles with what appears to be the world’s heaviest coffee table, his face turning the approximate shade of a tomato. At the entrance, another mover carefully ascends the porch steps with a lamp that probably costs more than my monthly car payment.
Hopefully the new neighbor won’t be noisy. Between grading quizzes and trying to come up with witty rhymes, I need my solitude like most people need caffeine. My songwriting process requires the same level of quiet as brain surgery.
“Wait!”
Mom’s shout nearly sends me jumping out of my sensible flats. She jogs out behind me, her fuzzy pink slippers slapping against the concrete driveway, bathrobe fluttering behind her like a floral-printed superhero cape. She’s waving a napkin-wrappedtriangle of toast like it was a peace offering after our tense breakfast conversation.
“At least finish your breakfast,” she says, slightly breathless. The toast is butter-side-down in the napkin, a smear of homemade strawberry jam peeking out from one corner.
“I’m not hungry anymore,” I say, opening the car door. The space in my stomach where my appetite used to be is now filled with that nauseating feeling only the image of your ex sending out wedding invites can brew.
Her gaze locks onto the U-Haul, and I can practically hear the gears turning in her head. A new neighbor means new gossip, new speculations to share at church coffee hour, new lives to dissect over chicken salad sandwiches. Maplewood Springs runs on secrets and speculation, and this poor soul, whoever they are, has just landed smack in the center of the Sunday Book Club’s crosshairs.
“Did you know someone was moving in?” she asks, momentarily distracted from her mission to nourish me. There’s a gleam in her eye that I recognize all too well—the look of a woman who’s about to add a new chapter to her mental encyclopedia of neighborhood knowledge.
“Just noticed it myself,” I reply, dropping my tote bag onto the passenger seat. “I’m sure you’ll have a full biography by dinner.”
She puffs up like an indignant parakeet. “Maisie Jane Lang, I do not gossip. I gather information.”
“Uh-huh.” I raise an eyebrow. “Sherlock Holmes gathers information, Mom. He doesn’t bring casseroles to his suspects afterward.”
Mom’s lips twitch, fighting a smile. Then her expression softens, the neighborhood detective vanishing beneath layers of maternal concern. “I’m just worried about you, that’s all.”
My gaze meets hers, and I see the genuine worry there, buried beneath the misguided helpfulness. She means well, even when she drives me crazy.
“I’ll be okay, Mom. Promise.” I try to infuse the words with a confidence I don’t entirely feel. Because honestly? I’m not sure when I’ll be okay again. Maybe when the news of my ex’s engagement stops feeling like a sucker punch.
She nods, though I can tell she’s not entirely convinced.
I close the car door before she can press the toast on me again. “Gotta go, Mom. Love you.”
