“Hi, honey,” my mother’s voice filled my ear.
“Hi, Mom.”
“How’s the vacation?” she asked, but I knew that wasn’t the reason for this call. I didn’t want to prolong this more than necessary.
“It’s great. What’s up?”
She sighed. “Have you talked to your father?”
“Not recently, no,” I said.
“I think you should talk to your father.”
“Mom,—” I started, but she cut me off.
“Luke, you know how he is. How hard it is to communicate with him. He doesn’t want to listen to me. You have to talk to him.” She made it sound like my duty. Like a responsibility I wasn’t fulfilling on my end.
“About what?”
“You know how much I love that house. It’s unfair.”
I clenched my jaw. “What’s unfair is that I have to hear about it when I haven’t been there in ten years.” My voice rose. “For the love of God, let me not think about your marital problems for one second while I’m on vacation.” Shoppers glanced at me. A small figure flickered in the corner of my eye, then disappeared, leaving behind a mango-scented trace.Great!
“Luke!” Mom’s shocked voice brought me back. I exhaled, pinching the bridge of my nose.
“I’m sorry,” I said, not feeling sorry in the slightest. “I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you soon,” I added quickly.
“But your fath-”
“I’ll see what I can do.” I hung up and went in search of the others. I finally found Hazel at the end of the aisle, scanning dozens of ice cream options. From the look on her face, she was having trouble deciding.
“Too many choices?” I teased her. Hazel smiled and grunted to herself.
“I usually get vanilla, but I feel adventurous today,” she said with a mischievous look on her face.
“Close your eyes. First one that comes to mind?” Her eyes fell shut. Seconds passed, but she stayed quiet. “C’mon, girl, snap decision.”
“Chocolate with cherries.”
“Oh, fancy,” I said, and she stuck out her tongue mockingly. It was funny and oddly erotic. Tossing the ice cream in her basket, she marched off, pretending to ignore me. I caught up, grinning, my previous tension nowhere to be found. I also noticed a couple of dented soda cans in her cart, but I let it slide.
Hazel then stopped at the fresh food section to pick out some fruits. I stepped on the other side of the section, watching her closely. She examined each fruit carefully, but what struck me as odd was that she kept picking the bruised ones instead of the normal ones. I glanced at her cart once more, and then it hit me.
“Oh. My. God. Hazel Ridley,” I said, amazed and stunned at once. Hazel looked at me, confused. “You feel sorry for the fruit,” I declared, piecing the clues together.
“What?” she laughed dismissively, still inspecting the melon she was holding.
“You do, don’t you?”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“The weird-shaped apples at home, dented cans,” I pointed at them in her cart, “the bruised fruit—you pick them on purpose.”
She pursed her lips as if annoyed. “They’re perfectly good products, and people avoid them like the plague. I just feel bad seeing them go to waste, so I choose them.”
“That’s the definition of ‘feeling sorry for something’,” I pointed out to her, teasing her again. I liked to do that a lot lately.
She lifted her gaze and looked me dead in the eyes. Without saying a word, she approached me dangerously close. The blue shades dancing in her eyes like sea glass made me feel like I was underwater, and I’d only be allowed to breathe when she gave me permission to resurface.
