She might’ve been right.
“Hey, sugar!” Lolly calls from the side of the house. “I’m back here.”
I make my way across the soft grass until I spot her kneeling in a flower bed. “What are you doing?”
“There are only two things you do on your knees. Considering I’m here alone, that must mean that I’m pulling weeds.”
I laugh, shaking my head.Oh, Lolly.
My stomach flutters as she gets to her feet, dusting off her knees when she rises. When Lolly called last week and asked me to come home to talk, I didn’t hesitate to accept. I’d do anything for her. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t been sleeping soundly and thinking about what she wants a hundred times a day.
“I can’t stand weeds. You’d think, as many times as I’ve plucked them from the ground, that they’d learn not to come back.” She sighs before smiling at me. “What are you waiting for? Come give me a hug.”
“It’s good to see you, Lolly,” I say, breathing in the perfume she’s worn since I was a baby as she envelops me in her arms. My insides flood with warmth, as if her touch extends beyond the boundaries of my skin. “You look great.”
She pulls away. “Your sister has me on a new skincare regimen. For the price, I’d better look great.”
I laugh again, taking her in. She used to be the same height as Markie and me, and possibly in just as good of shape, but the years have gently stolen a few centimeters from her. Her cheeks are rosy, her eyes bright and bagless, and her bottle-blond hair shines in the sunlight. Seeing her makes me wonder what Mom would’ve looked like as she grew older. And I hate that I’ll never know the answer.
A warm breeze ripples between us, carrying the scent of spring. I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with the smell of dirt and dandelions.
Standing on top of this hill next to the house where I ultimately grew up, overlooking Sugar Creek, a sense of nostalgia whispers over my heart. I have so many memories here—good and bad, beautiful and ugly. The way those thoughts can hurt and heal me at the same time is wild.
It’s mostly why I don’t spend a lot of time reliving them.
“How are you feeling?” she asks, leading me through the back door and into the kitchen. “Is your tummy feeling better?”
“Yeah. I thought it was food poisoning at first because I ate some questionable gas station sushi on the way to Markie’s. But it lasted a few days, so maybe it was a stomach bug.”
“You’re not pregnant, are you?”
“What?No.” My face sours. “Don’t speak that filth into the universe.”
She rolls her pretty blue eyes, heading to the sink to wash her hands. It’s such a natural motion, one I’ve seen her do a million times. For the briefest moment, I could be ten years old, finishing up a cupcake at Lolly’s kitchen table, waiting on Mom to pick me up for softball practice.
“How was your trip?” I ask, taking a seat at the small round table next to the window. “Did you have fun?”
“It was a good time. Only four of us ended up going because Freida broke her hip. Poor thing. I’ve been telling her to take calcium, but she’s too hardheaded to listen.” She shrugs, turning off the tap and drying her hands on a dish towel. “We did the Paramount Pour yesterday afternoon.”
“What’s that?”
Lolly busies herself by making two glasses of iced tea. “It’s over in Paramount. Such a cute little town.” She hands me a glass. “The businesses all have a drink of some sort set out on the sidewalk. Sometimes there’s a little snack or a game to go along with it. I did beer pong at a distillery.” She sits across from me. “And dare I say that I’m darn good at it.”
“I would expect nothing less.”
She smiles. “Anyway, you just stroll around town and pop into different shops along the way. It’s such a smart way to bring people in.”
“Sounds like it.”
“You should come with us next year.”
I shrug. “Maybe I will.”
The look in her eyes as I sip my tea tells me that she won’t get her hopes up. That’s probably for the best.
I glance around the kitchen as Lolly takes a drink, noticing a few new additions to the curated chaos of Lolly’s style. A digital photo frame is propped up on the counter, a gift that Markie gave her for her birthday. Two new platters hang on the wall above the powder room. I’m surprised there’s room, considering she’s been adding to that collection for decades. There’s a new glass-tiered serving tray on the baker’s rack, too.
Shifting in my seat, I begin to ask what she wanted to talk with me about, but she beats me to the punch.
