As I pull the hybrid into the long oak-lined driveway, the sun peeking through the orange leaves overhead illuminating the black shuttered windows of Devon’s mother’s house, my entire chest has turned inside out. The raw ache of homesickness has me feeling so heavy that when we stop in front of the two-car driveway, I sit there in the driver’s seat staring at the mums lining the pathway. Meredith and Kevin get out and close me inside the car to process.
I love this time of year at home. Brisk days, outdoor fires with Sammy roasting mallows, trail rides beneath the changing leaves.
I was hesitant to come—not because of this hollowed out pain in my heart—but because I never got the official invitation from Devon. Her mother insisted that Meredith bring me along,so I’d agreed, looking forward to a home-cooked meal and a peek into Devon’s past. But now I realize I should have followed my instincts, stayed behind in the city and rested. Avoided the magnet that is Devon and the reminder that my real life is halfway across the country.
Kevin and Meredith disappear inside the house and Devon steps out onto the covered front porch. Giant pumpkins and gourds are scattered on a haybale beside her feet and she sidesteps them as she approaches the car. Her hair is pulled back to the side, her dark, loose curls cascading down one shoulder, her arms crossed over her chest as she lifts a brow at me and bends to look into the window.
I lower the glass between us and hold her gaze.
“You thinking of coming in?” she asks.
“Nah. I told them I’d drive them for half the price of an Uber.”
She smiles and a soft breeze whips a piece of her hair loose from her ponytail. The red leaves of a Japanese Maple rustle behind her. She shivers.
“Let’s go, weirdo. I’m cold. And since you managed to weasel your way into an invite from the hostess, you better be ready for an inquisition,” she says, patting the roof of the car twice.
I put the glass back up and smile up at her before cutting the engine and reaching for the pink bakery box I brought. The box is out of my hands before I’m even fully out of the car.
“You brought Maggie’s! Oh sweet joy. I’m gonna lick all of these,” she says, rocking onto her toes while she peeks under the lid of the box.
“They are for your mother,” I lie. I know how much she loves these cupcakes, so I took the trip across town to get them. Just so I could see her bounce around like a kid. It was worth it.
“Right,” Devon murmurs as she leads me into the house. “I’ll take them to her.” She stops, glances over her shoulder at me,then bounds up the steps with the box, leaving me staring after her like she’s lost her mind.
“You must be Jeff!”
Devon’s mother is an exact replica of her eldest daughter. I step forward and offer my hand.
“I am. And I hate to show up empty handed, but your daughter just took off with our dessert to hide them god-knows-where,” I tell her.
She laughs, Devon’s laugh, and I’m smiling like an idiot at the sound.
“Oh look at that dimple! I’m Kathy Gallagher. It’s so lovely to finally meet you.” She wipes her hands on the towel over her shoulder then takes my hand in both of hers. Gives me a wink and pulls me in closer. “My daughter talks a lot about you.”
Does she now? I shake my head.
“I bet. We had a rocky start,” I explain.
But she waves that off.
“Everything with my daughter is rocky. She’s all sharp edges on the outside, and gooey kindness on the?—”
“Mommmmmm,” Devon’s head appears over the staircase banister behind us. “Please do not add to my reasons to avoid this man. I just started to tolerate him when he showed up with cupcakes.”
Kathy winks at me again and takes my arm, leading me through the hall lined with family photos in a variety of locales and school pictures of Tara and Devon. I try to control my smile when I see a framed 13-year-old Devon with bangs sprayed high and Halloween color rubber bands around her braces.
“Like you looked any better at 13,” I hear her murmur from behind me. I toss her a grin over my shoulder.
“I’m sure my mom would be happy to send you a picture if you asked,” I tell her as we step into the kitchen. Meredith is filling wine glasses at the corner of the expansive butcher blockcounter and Kevin is setting the table. The entire back of the kitchen is a wall of glass, the woods behind standing guard over the patch of green where the infamous chickens are waddling around the yard like they own the place. I haven’t felt this at home since I left Chicago in June.
Something wet and cold hits my palm and I look down to find the fattest, golden dog I’ve ever seen nudging his nose into my hand.
“Et tu, Brutus?” Devon says rolling her eyes. “First my friends, now my mom and her dog. What’s next, Jeff?”
“Your virginity,” Meredith says across the kitchen. Devon’s mom laughs. Kevin clears his throat.
“Oh honey, that ship sailed a long, long?—”
