“There’s that possibility too.” I adjust my baseball hat.
My mother isn’t nosy per se, not like Sophia Snodgrass-Schuster or Mrs. Gormely, but she loves to yap. My father jokes that after they say goodnight to each other, she routinely has no less than three conversation topics to cover before she actually goes to sleep. Usually, he dozes off halfway through.
I let out a shaky breath, anticipating that Mom will throw some curveballs, not to be sneaky, but because she loves being involved in my life. But then another concern arises. “What if they know the truth, but the other dinner guests get curious?”
April thinks for a moment. “We can tell them that after being friends for ten years, we, um, realized there was something more.” Her voice is careful, measured.
I nod. “Like what we told the interviewers. That sounds plausible.”
It’s basically what actually happened for me, anyway.
She adds, “The fake dating thing just gave us an excuse to explore it.”
My heart hits turbulence, drops at least ten thousand feet. “Is that what we’re doing? Exploring it?”
April’s gaze meets mine, and for a moment, I think she’s going to say yes. That she feels it too—that this thing between us that stopped being fake somewhere along the way.
But then the pilot announces our descent, and the moment dissolves.
We land in Oregon mid-afternoon, collect our very excited dogs, and rent an SUV large enough for our canine entourage. The drive to my parents’ house on the eastern side of the state takes about an hour through rolling hills.
“I forgot how beautiful it is here,” she says.
“It’s too bad your parents moved back to the coast right after you graduated.”
She laughs. “After my mother insisted they move inland because she wanted to try out that rustic mountain life like the latest in fashion trends, she only lasted a year. Missed her social life.”
There’s something sad in April’s voice when she mentions her parents—usually, I just hear frustration and irritation.
I reach over and catch her hand. “Hey, everything okay?”
She shrugs. “They didn’t even bother to call to see if I’d be coming home for Easter.”
It wasn’t that long ago, but I now realize she didn’t go home for Christmas either. I wonder if they’re slowly erasing her from their lives since she’s not living up to their standards of “the daughter they can brag to their friends about.”
“Whatever happens this weekend or whenever ... you always have me, you know that, right?”
“Friends?” she asks, but the sadness is still there.
I squeeze her hand. “Always.”
However, I cannot help but fear that going back to “just friends” might be impossible now.
My parents’ house comes into view, and the dogs rustle as we slow down. April’s jaw drops at the multitude of Easter decorations. Plastic eggs and garlands adorn the trees. There are inflatable bunnies, pastel streamers, and in the center, a giant wooden cross.
“Wow,” April breathes. “Your mom really commits.”
I shake my head. “You have no idea. You see, while she loves Christmas, Easter is her thing, and all these decorations are a bid for grandchildren. Yes, she asks me when I’m going to settle down every time we talk.”
April swallows thickly and we’ve barely parked before the front door flies open. My entire family spills out. Momleads the charge, arms outstretched, followed by Dad, my sister Claudia, who is a couple of years younger than me, and my twin brothers—who triumphantly just turned twenty.
“Clark! April! You made it!” Mom engulfs us both in hugs that smell like vanilla and home.
“Hi, Mrs. Culpepper,” April says.
Mom immediately pulls back. “It’s Cheryl, honey. We’ve been over this. I am so glad you’re here. I’ve always hoped Clark would officially bring you home, you know,” she whispers.
April catches my gaze, likely wondering if I heard that. Yes, yes, I did.
