Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92136 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92136 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
But I wanted to be with her.
So now what? Did we need to talk about this? Did I owe it to her to make sure she knew how I felt? But what if that was a deal-breaker? What if she broke it off? The chocolate milkshake I’d drunk with my lunch seemed to curdle in my stomach.
I didn’t like thinking about my life without her. I didn’t want to go back to one-night stands with women whose names I could barely recall. And when I thought of her with someone else—my hands tightened on the steering wheel—I wanted to fucking put my fist through the windshield.
I couldn’t lose her. I needed her.
Especially now, when I was turning onto my old street and my nerves were already tying themselves into knots. What would my mother’s mental state be? How would she handle meeting her grandchild? Which version of her would greet us today, the angst-ridden agoraphobe who'd never recovered from the tragic loss of her younger son, or some semblance of the mother I'd once known, who baked amazing chocolate chip cookies and wore a perfume called Happy and laughed at all of Adam’s terrible jokes?
I pulled into the driveway and put the car in park, but didn't turn off the engine.
Emme looked over at me. "You okay?"
"Yeah.” I cleared my throat, which felt tight and scratchy all of a sudden. “Coming here is sometimes difficult."
"I get it."
Of course you do. My throat tightened even more. Why did I feel like I owed her an apology?
Maybe it was the house messing with me. I looked at it through the driver side window, a red brick center entrance colonial with black shutters and white trim. The hydrangea bushes on either side of the front door still had dead brown leaves, but I knew they would bloom bright pink and blue this summer. If I squinted, I could still see my mother cutting them back, my dad mowing the front lawn, my brother and I racing down the driveway on our bikes, our capes flying behind us.
My mother appeared in the living room window. She'd moved the curtain aside and was peering out intently, like a lonely old lady looking for some neighborhood gossip. I couldn't tell if she was wearing gloves or not.
I unbuckled my seatbelt. "Might as well go in.”
Emme covered my hand with hers for a moment but didn't say anything, and I felt a rush of gratitude.
I looked at our hands. “I’m really glad you’re here.”
“Me too. Do I get to see your old bedroom? Are there, like, posters of Cindy Crawford on the walls?”
Laughing, I shook my head. “You’d be more likely to see nineties movie posters, but I’m pretty sure my mother has taken them all down.”
A few minutes later we approached the front door, which opened before we even stepped onto the porch. My mother stood twisting her hands together, her expression a bit anxious, but at least she wasn’t wearing gloves. She was dressed in jeans and a turtleneck sweater, and her hair was shorter than the last time I’d seen her, which had been about two months ago. It used to be dark and thick and she’d worn it long when I was a kid, but now it was much thinner, almost entirely gray, and barely covered her ears.
“You’re here,” she said, looking frantically from me to Emme to Paisley in her car seat, which I carried in one hand.
“Hi, Mom. We’re here.”
“I was getting worried. It’s such a long drive, and there’s that one stretch that’s really long without any exits from the highway.” She covered one hand with the other and switched repeatedly. They were pink and chapped from so much handwashing. “I always dread that part of the drive. Sometimes I dread it so much I have to turn around and come home.”
“I know. But we were fine.” I nodded toward Emme. “This is my friend Emme.” And because I knew what her next question was going to be, I added, “She’s not the baby’s mother.”
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Pearson.” Emme smiled warmly.
“Hello.” My mother gave Emme a quick nod before looking at Paisley again. “And that’s the baby?”
“This is Paisley. Can we come in?”
“Oh! Yes, of course,” she said, almost like she was surprised, as if maybe she hadn’t planned on actually inviting us into the house. She backed away from the door, and I gestured for Emme to go in before me. Once we all stood in the front hall and the door was closed behind us, my mother seemed to recover some of her manners. “Can I take your coat?” she asked Emme.
“Sure.” Emme took off her denim jacket and handed it to my mom. “Thank you. You have a beautiful home.”
“Thank you, dear.” She hung the jacket in the front hall closet. “It’s really too big for only one person, but I’m so used to it. I just don’t think I would like a new house.”