Rebecca’s eyes drop to the floor, and unease rolls in my stomach for her. Apparently, I’m not the only one who notices; Dad places a hand on her back, clearing the obvious frog in his throat.
“I, uh, I’m sorry,” he mutters, shaking his head. “I think I’m just caught off-guard here. I didn’t realize you were coming.”
Rebecca scratches her arm, attempting a smile as her eyes coast over the three of us. “It wasn’t planned, I don’t think.”
I nudge Mom on the elbow, thanking God when it does the trick.
“No,” she says quietly, almost a whisper. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry. I should have called or ... or something. I—” She rubs her throat, frowning. “Excuse me, I need some air.”
She doesn’t wait for a response before bolting from the room. Dad stares after her, and I stand in place, unsure what to do. Pretty sure I used that same excuse to avoid Dad earlier this morning. Tucking a lock of hair behind my ear, I descend the final step into the living room. “Dad? Are you okay?”
He drags his gaze to me, his brows pulling together. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” He smiles, rubbing his hand up and down Rebecca’s arm in comforting strokes. “How about you? Better than this morning, I’m guessing, now that your mom’s here?”
“Much better,” I say even though it’s only partially true.
My heart’s still a wilted mess, thanks to Joshua’s expression—crushed, on his knees in front of Miss Riley—tattooed on the forefront of my brain. But this answer is so much easier, and I know I’ve said the right thing when my dad’s posture relaxes and his eyes warm.
“I’ll see you in a bit?” I ask. “Going to catch up with Mom.”
“Yeah, sure.”
I offer them both a weak smile before finding my mom in the backyard. She’s already sprawled over the grass, arms open wide, and her eyes centered on the sky. Her chest is still moving in short bursts. I haven’t seen her blink once.
Dropping my pillows on top of the comforter she set on the grass, I close the gap between us and lower myself beside her. I can’t help but look across the yard toward Joshua’s house—again. Of course his lights are off. Disappointment flares inside me as I lie flat on my back, folding my arms over my stomach, but somehow, the position only makes the weight in my chest heavier. I quickly shift to mimic my mom’s position instead, and the relief is immediate.
“Why are you always right?” I ask, gazing at the darkening sky.
Mom doesn’t look at me. “What am I right about?”
“You always told me stretching your arms open like this can make the biggest difference in your mood. It’s like magic. Look ...” I fold my arms over my stomach. “Inhibited.” Then throw them open dramatically. “Uninhibited. Inhibited,”—I repeat the motions—“uninhibited.” A sigh pours out of me as I mutter, “Brilliant,” and Mom laughs.
“Well,” she murmurs, “I’m glad my advice works for one of us.”
“What? It doesn’t work for you?”
There’s a pause. “It used to.”
I slide my gaze to her. Still facing the sky, her eyes fall closed, and after a moment, her breathing slows.
“Mom?”
“Mmm?”
“Do you still love him?”
The earth goes still at my question. Almost as still as Mom’s chest. She swallows, and then whispers, “Yes.”
My heart skips. I shouldn’t be surprised by her answer. It was so obvious just now, the way they looked at each other. Before moving here, I might have missed it completely. But that was then. Now, I’ve felt it, how deep a person can root themselves in your soul. A moment that intense could only be a result of love.
It takes me a second to realize it wasn’t her answer that threw me off, but the fact she answered at all. In the past, whenever I’d ask about Dad, she only gave non-answers or avoided the questions completely.
Progress. Maybe I should be happy with that. Before moving here, it would have been enough. But today, I’m desperate to take advantage of her response.
“Will you tell me about it?”
Talk to me.
Cricket sounds grow between us, emphasizing her hesitation, but, finally, she whispers, “I want to.”
