Page 46 of The Trouble with Flings

“You going to stand there all day?” he asks, heading up to the house.

“I figured you had flowers for Mom in your car.”

“Not today.” He flashes a shit-eating grin and says, “Vic and I were running late.”

I laugh.

His expression turns serious again. “Anything good come of that text last night?”

Wells is the only one I’ve confided in about what went down in Costa Rica. He knew I was hung up on the woman I’d had the one-night stand with over the summer, and when he found out they were one and the same, he’d called it fate.

“It’s always good,” I say. “But nothing new.”

“Hang in there, man,” he says as we head inside. “The universe threw you two together again for a reason.”

That’s what I’m counting on.

Inside, the kitchen is a symphony of conversation and breakfast preparations. Something is sizzling on the griddle, bacon crackles in the pan, and the rich, buttery scent of fresh pastries hangs in the air. Thank you, Keira.

My mother stands at the stove draped in cashmere, her golden-brown hair in its perfectly coiffed bob, as elegantly composed as always, even with a spatula in her hand. My father is pouring himself coffee, looking as he has my whole life, distinguished, in dark slacks and a gray button-down, though his thick dark hair has more silver at the temples these days.

Jules is perched on a stool by the island with six-month-old Stevie on her knees, holding his tiny hands, telling him how wonderful he is in that maternal tone that most women seem to acquire with the birth of their first baby. It’s a tone I know well from my own mother. The one that says she’d love me through anything. Grant hovers beside them, one hand on the back of Jules’s chair, a cup of coffee in the other. His shaggy brown hair looks finger combed, his beard is thick for the winter, and his smile exists solely for his little family.

Bellamy is gabbing with Keira and Victory about a new skincare sponsorship deal and a photo shoot in LA.

“I heard you two turned into teenagers out there,” my father says.

“I kicked his ass,” Wells says, making a beeline for Victory.

I scoff. “You wish.”

“Wells is just sore because Fitz cleaned him out last night in poker,” Grant tosses in.

“I heard about that,” Victory says.

“I’m surprised he admitted it,” Keira says as she sets a platter of pastries on the table.

Wells throws an arm around Victory’s shoulders, gazing at her with wide puppy-dog eyes, and says, “He took every penny and felt nothing. He’s ruthless.”

“Ohmygod,” Bellamy says. “He totally used his loss for pity sex!”

“Bellamy!” my mother chides, but she’s laughing with the rest of us.

Wells flashes a gloating grin.

I head over to my mother and kiss her cheek. “Morning, Mom.”

“Hi, sweetheart. I’m making your favorite, French toast with bananas and cinnamon.” She smiles warmly, and I know she’s thinking about our mornings together, like I am.

Another memory trickles in, of padding downstairs in the gray early-morning quiet of one of the early days after my father moved out. My mother was standing in this same spot, and I remember asking, What should I do? She said, You should do what we always do, honey. Eat breakfast, go to school, play with your friends, do your homework. As if all we had to do was keep the same routine, and everything would be fine. I don’t know if we were in denial or just hopeful romantics, but I’m grateful we’re still a family.

She touches my hand, drawing me from my thoughts. “Would you mind setting out the syrup? I think we’re ready to eat.”

“Did I hear ready to eat?” Wells says, starting a ruckus.

As I carry the syrup to the table, my father claps a hand on my shoulder. “I looked over your solar proposal last night. That conference paid off. The cost-to-savings projections are solid, and the environmental impact numbers are exactly what we’ve been aiming for. Nice work.”

“Thanks.”