“Gerry, did you see the article I sent you about Christmas?” Quinn asks, snapping me out of my reverie.
“The one about doing a trip instead of exchanging gifts?”
“Yes! I figured now Colton’s home, we could each present our ideas on Christmas Day and then vote. What do you think?”
“I love it,” she says, then sends a chastising look in my direction. “I’m just relieved Colton’s finally at a job that doesn’t make him work over the holidays.”
My chest tightens, and Quinn slides her hand under the table to squeeze mine. She knows the truth, that there wasn’t enough money left over after paying for my mom’s housing for me to fly back every year. When my mother assumed I couldn’t get off work, I didn’t correct her.
Momma continues. “There’s nothing you two could give me that would be better than spending more time with my kids.”
“Quinn’s not my sister,” I say without thinking. If she’s supposed to be my sister, I need some serious therapy.
“Your only child doesn’t like to share,” Quinn mock whispers, and my mom laughs.
I shoot Quinn a stern look. “I’m takingmymother over there to talk.”
“Spoilsport,” she yells at my back.
I turn back, smiling widely, and Quinn’s answering smile sends tingles to every corner of my body. “You can stay here and finish all this fried food for us.”
Quinn’s groan chases after me as I walk away from the restaurant and down the street. I lean against the first wall I find that isn’t part of the stretch of restaurants.
“How’re you doing, Momma?” I ask.
“Nothing to complain about. Ruthie’s still driving me crazy at the factory, but apparently it’s against HR policy to duct tape someone’s mouth for talking too much.” She shrugs innocently, and I laugh loud enough to earn stares from people sitting on the patio of the nearby restaurant.
She continues talking over my laughter. “I do have to call that horrible Bobby, I’m sure you remember him”—she always says that and I never remember them—“he’s a pain in the ass, but he’s the best person to help with the kitchen renovation I was telling you about.”
I clear my throat. “And he can stay on budget?”
A couple years ago, I finally saved up enough to buy her a house. I sent her a dozen listings that were in the budget I’d come up with. Cute houses and condos. But then she called me, her eyes shining with tears as she showed me the listing for her dream house, a little bungalow within walking distance of downtown Grand Creek. She’d spent so much of her hard-earned money helping me achieve my dreams, and I wanted to give her one of her own, even if it meant stretching my finances beyond their limits.
She took my ability to buy that house as a sign that I was making a ton of money. Which… I’m not. My pay isn’t bad, but I don’t have disposable income, especially between my rent and Momma’s mortgage.
But I’ve never been good at saying no to her. So when she wanted to paint her house a soft blue with white shutters, I footed the bill. And when she mentioned her decades-old couch wasn’t very comfortable anymore, I sent her money to redecorate. And when she asked if she could renovate the kitchen so it was open to the living room—It’ll be perfect for my girls' nights—I said yes without even thinking about it.
I mentally calculate what I’ll need to move around to make this reno work. Adding any new expenses will stretch my budget to near breaking, but I can make it work for now, especially sinceI’m subletting my apartment in Boston while I’m gone, and the university is covering my expenses here.
“It won’t be too much, baby,” she says, setting the phone down to fill up her cup of coffee and leaving me staring at the ceiling. She always busies her hands during uncomfortable conversations. “I won’t go more than a little bit over budget.”
Her laughter, teasing and sweet, rings through the phone, and it should make me feel better, but the lines of my budget spreadsheet feel like they’ve wrapped around my lungs, pulling tighter and tighter.
Quinn’s been on my ass to talk to my mom about all of this, but she doesn’t get it. She has no idea what it’s like to owe everything to another person and to have a limited time to pay them back properly. I’ve seen how much my mom’s changed over the years. The long days standing in the production line at her factory job are showing. It had been noticeable even over video calls, but when I saw her in person this past July, it knocked me for a loop. Every moment of those ten years apart are written in the lines of her face, in the strands of her hair that have gone completely gray. I don’t know how much longer I’ll have her, and she should get to experience all the things she wants—all the things she sacrificed for me—before I lose her.
I sigh. “Try to stay in budget, Momma.”
She barks out a laugh, grabbing the phone so I can see her face again. “Always so serious! I need someone who’ll get my vision. Bring Quinn back. I always did like that girl of yours better than you, anyway.”
I groan. “You know she’s not mine, Momma.”
“Only because you’re too damn stubborn to say something and make her yours. I got it when you were leaving, but why not speak up now?”
I rub my palm over my eyes. “She doesn’t look at me like that.”
I’ve spent a decade and a half watching for something from her, any hint that she might be interested in more. We’ve had acouple charged moments since I’ve come home, but she’s always quick—very, very quick—to bring up how lucky we are to have our friendship. She may be attracted to me, but does she want something real with me? Absolutely not. She’s never hidden any of her thoughts and feelings. If she wanted to be with me, she wouldn’t have been able to hold her tongue.
I’ve seen her walk away from friendships with other people after they confessed their feelings for her. She sat on my bed at least a half dozen times, talking about the awkwardness, how she didn’t know how to behave around them anymore. The thought of her walking away from me is crippling.
