"I love this house," I remind them. The second I saw it, I knew it was mine. That I'd be happy here. That this was the place where I'd start my life on my own.
"That house is a money pit," he argues. "It's not safe. You never should have left home."
Again, I sigh, trading out my tea towel for the one I use for my curls. When my phone is propped up, I scrunch my hair with it as we talk. Well,theytalk. I listen to the rant I've heard a thousand times since I finished my Masters at University of Kentucky and told them I was moving to Tennessee. I didn't even tell them I'd applied for the elementary librarian job in Roseville until after I got the job. See, they're finally out of things to hold over me. College was the last shackle—they'd only pay for school if I kept living at home. So I stayed home. Don't tell them, but it was a little bit of a relief—after being homeschooled, college was scary, at least at first. I wasn't ready to be on my own. But once I was, they didn't give me a choice.
They're lucky I don't have a rebellious bone in my body. Or maybe it's me who's lucky. If I hadn't stayed home, I'd be up to my ears in student loan debt. But in the end, it wasn't that much of a hardship. A free place to stay with home cooked meals and alaundry service? Sign me up. And it's not as if I had anywhere to go that they wouldn't approve of. My friends and I usually stayed in for craft nights or game nights or whatever nights we could plan that involved pajamas and popcorn.
Anyway, I love my parents, sure. I mean, other than their proclivity for obsessing about my whereabouts. Sometimes they act like I'll justpoof, disappear.
By the time my hair is properly scrunched and I've cleaned off my glasses, they've wound down a little. Dad's frown is now contained between his eyes and mouth.
"I'm coming down and fix some things around there," he decides.
It's cute my accountant father thinks he could fix anything that doesn't involve a calculator. "I'm fine, Daddy. Other than this," I add, smushing the peas back to my forehead, which is red and starting to welt. "Don't worry, okay?" Might as well saystop breathingorquit blinking. "I have my trusty toolbox, a hardware store, and the internet. Nothing is unfigureoutable, right?"
He uses the phrase on me all the time, and with that, I get through to him. Or at least chip away at him. I know because his frown eases into a scowl.
"Don't you touch anything electrical."
"I won't," I promise with a smile.
"So, who's Dale?" Mom asks.
I can't help but laugh. "Mom, he's some YouTube fixit guy. I don't actually know him."
"Good," Dad says.
"You don't want me to meet a guy?" My visible brow arches. "You're never gonna get grandbabies if I don't meet somebody."
His nose tilts. "I don't trust any old guy."
Mom gathers her cardigan and wraps it closed, giving him a look.
I say what she's thinking. "You don't trust anybody."
He gives me that look he wears when I sass him. I laugh.
"Well, I love y'all. I've gotta run--our teacher's softball team tryouts are in a bit."
Boom, there go the frowns again. They forgot.
"Softball?" Dad starts. "You can't even throw a ball honey. No offense."
I shake my head at him. "Whose fault is that?"
"And swinging that bat?" Mom joins in. "What if a ball hits you?"
"Then I'll get a bruise and carry on. A million people play every day and live. I'll be fine." When they don't interject, I take the opportunity to exit. "Alright, I'm gonna let y'all go. But I love you! I'll call you when I get home, okay?"
They grumble their assent. "Love you, honey," Mom says. "Be good!"
As if I've ever had the chance to be anything else.
I set the phone down and get ready to go, changing my shirt and pulling on white canvas sneakers. I own approximately zero appropriate workout clothes, which I suppose I should rectify if I'm going to be playing softball. They're not wrong--I don't think I can throw a ball with any accuracy or distance. But my first and best friend here in Roseville, Cass, suggested I join the teacher's league to meet people. And apparently, this is the first time in several years they've even had enough interested teachers. I'm the ninth, which they tell me is how many players are on a softball team. I warned Cass that I have no idea what I'm doing, but she said it didn't matter, that it was just for fun.
My nerves ease when I remember that. Because who doesn't love fun? And I get to make new friendsandlearn something new. Basically heaven.
On the way out, I give the cavern under my sink a look that I hope fixes its attitude, kissing the top of Scout's head beforeleaving through the front door. It's the end of February, and the weather hasn't quite started to turn, but I feel it coming. The trees are still bare up here in the Smokeys, and I find myself squinting for green buds on the branches. Once they sprout, everything will be lush and green in a few short weeks, the hills covered in trees so densely that from a distance, they look like mounds of broccoli. But it's too chilly still.
