“Chas,” I correct automatically. “Thanks, Dad.”
“Right. Sorry.”
My mom takes a deep breath and pushes away from the countertop. I step back—and, hey, I’m not proud of that fact. My mom would never hurt me, but she’s always been a force to be reckoned with. That makes her a great mayor. And honestly, it also makes her a great mom. She never backs down from a fight.
“Of course I’m happy you’re home.” She grabs a baking sheet from her collection on the counter. “Why didn’t you tell us you were moving back? We could have helped. Prepared—” Shewaves her arms around like she’s searching for answers to the universe or why her son would do this to her.
This is the reason I didn’t tell them. Not the only reason. I wanted their anniversary party to be a surprise. But I also didn’t want a fuss. Everything planned out for me. A welcoming committee—possibly the entire town—waiting with open arms. What if I changed my mind— My eyes dart to my mom as something that feels suspiciously like guilt swirls in my gut. Oh.
My mom doesn’t do well with uncertainty. I swallow the guilt and plaster on a reassuring smile. “I’m here to stay, Mom. At least for now.”
She nods and turns to stir the sauce. My dad and I exchange looks.Is she okay?He must understand some of what I’m thinking because he shrugs.
Her back stiffens, her shoulders roll, and shit—this time I don’t move as she turns and smiles. “You’re impulsive, honey. That’s not a bad thing. But you can’t come and go on a whim.”
My mouth drops open. “I didn’t leave on a whim.”
The hot sun on my face. The gasps from the crowd. The scent of popcorn, orange soda, and vomit. The taste of bile in my throat. Mint chiffon forever stained and Dani Rae’s look of total horror as I reach for her and slip on my own mess.
I blink, trying to dispel the memories, and cross my arms. “I left because I needed a fresh start.”
Her lips purse again as if she’s trying to hold in her thoughts. Thoughts I don’t want to hear, so I’m grateful for her restraint. “And now?” she prompts.
“And now, I’m back. I appreciate you and Dad wanting to help me, but I’ve got everything handled.”
She studies me for a moment, and then her eyes soften. “What happened with that boy?”
No. No, no, no. I’m not talking about Syd. “Nothing.” But her point, whether she intended it or not, is clear. This is what I do. Run away when things get hard.
“Never shit where you eat, Chas,” my dad says with a chuckle.
Um. Gross.
Mom makes a sound of disgust. “Charles.”
My dad only laughs. “What? It’s a saying.”
At least her annoyance is now directed at him. He just shrugs. “Back in my day, when you found a job, you stayed at it. Kids today go from job to job like a butterfly flying from flower to flower to find the sweetest nectar.”
I want to yell at him that the world isn’t the same. But I’ve been trapped in that conversation before, and my dad could go on for hours. Hours.
“Focus, Chuck, you’re veering off topic,” Mom says, handing him a loaf of French bread. “And start the garlic bread.”
He nods, gathering everything he needs and then slicing the bread. “All I’m saying is dating someone you work with is never a good idea.”
I know he’s right. Syd is proof of that. How many times had he patted my head? “That’s our Charlie. Good thing he’s cute,”or“The adults are speaking now, Charlie.” The five-year age gap wasn’t much, but it was enough.
And after we broke up, it was a thousand times worse. The comments, carelessly thrown out before, now had a purpose. Humiliate Charlie. After months of seeing his smarmy face and listening to his smug comments, I couldn’t take it anymore. I was miserable.
His parting shot of “Run home and lick your wounds, Charlie” hit their mark.
But I still don’t regret leaving. “You’re right, Dad,” I say, smiling at his raised brows. “Getting involved with someone you work with is messy.”
“Are you staying for supper, Charlie?” Mom asks.
The impulse to say no is strong. I’m an adult. I can fix my own meals. And although I’m stubborn, I have my limits. Why would I want to eat ramen by myself in an apartment full of unpacked boxes when I could have my mom’s lasagna? “I’d love to.”
“Wonderful.”
