“How did we get talkin’ about my love life?” My twang thickens before I can stop it.
A pot clinks, followed by a soft “shoot” under her breath. “One sec.”
I carry my coffee to the window seat in the front room.
“Did you get the deposit?” I ask when she comes back.
She pauses. “Yes, and before you start?—”
“Mama—”
“Summer.” She says my name in that way only mothers do. “We’re okay.”
“I know.” My voice drops. “I just want to make sure you’re taken care of.”
“You always have, but you don’t need to. Your brother isn’t completely useless, you know.” There’s laughter in her voice. “Although last week Jordan tried to fix the garbage disposal and nearly took out the whole sink.”
I snort. “He should stick to cars.”
“He should.” Then softer: “We can handle things, I promise.”
I stare into my mug.
She’s talking about now. My brain’s stuck onthen—the years when bills got paid, but barely. When she worked doubles and still made dinner feel normal, still made the lights feel guaranteed. I know she means it. She said the same thing backthen, and I pretended to believe her so she wouldn’t have to carry my worry on top of her own.
“You worry about your music. Don’t worry about us.”
“I want this to work,” I admit. Not only becauseIwant it, but because if it works, it changes things foreveryone.
“And I want that for you. But you know what I want more?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “I just want you happy. That’s it. That’s the whole list.”
My throat tightens. I take a long sip of coffee.
Someone calls her name in the background.
“I’ve got to go,” she says. “Call me later. And stop worrying about us. I mean it.”
“I’ll try.”
“Try harder.” There’s a smile in her voice. “Love you.”
“Love you, too. Tell Dad I said hi. Don’t forget this time.”
I tuck my feet up on the window seat and cup my mug in both hands, the warmth seeping through. I’ve got a perfect view of the driveway from here. I tell myself that’snotwhy I picked the spot.
Not even five minutes later, a black Mercedes G-Wagon turns into the driveway.
Miles.
My stomach pinches, like it’s done all week, whenever his name lit up my phone.
He parks quickly, not his usual careful alignment, perpendicular to the garage. He stares at my truck for a long moment, like he’s not sure he can trust I’m home, before cutting the engine.
Then he’s moving. Duffel grabbed, door shouldered closed, jogging toward the house.
The front door opens and shuts.
“Summer?”
