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“You know it is, darling.”
I nod again and press my eyes closed, swallowing the memories of how she’d grill me about Dad’s “new family” when I came back from a visit. The comments she and my grandparents would make about Dad receiving the judgment of God for what he’d done to us and his congregation. The direction I got from my grandparents to “be happy” so Mom wouldn’t be sad.
“Has he reached out to you recently?” she asks when I don’t say anything.
“He’s never stopped.” Not even when I was a teenager and quit visiting him because I made myself busy on weekends and holidays with Church group stuff.
There’s another long silence. I don’t know if she’s upset or not. She’s gotten better at hiding “negative emotions.”
Maybe it’s my turn to feel something besides happy.
“It’s okay for you to have a relationship with him.” Her quiet words nearly get lost in the barking that starts up downstairs. She’s said them before, but always layered with a healthy topping of sadness meant to induce guilt.
There’s something different about her voice this time. Something more genuine in it, but I can’t be sure until she says, “and your sister and brother.”
She’s never called my half-siblings that before. They’ve always been “Glen’s kids.” And I’ve always followed her lead by calling themDad’s other kids.
“I have a relationship with them… and with Hope.” Hopeful—Hope for short—is my stepsister. Even though, out of all Dad’s kids, Hope is the one I’m always careful about mentioning to Mom. Maybe because we both feel like Hope is more Dad’s kid than I am, even if he’s not her real dad.
“Sending birthday gifts isn’t a relationship,” Mom says, then pauses. “It’s up to you how involved in their lives you want to be. But I won’t love you less or think you love me less if you do.”
Something loosens in my chest, and a long breath escapes. One I may have been holding for most of my life. There’s so much to unwrap in what Mom’s said that we could talk for hours rehashing the last two decades. We probably should compare the stories we’ve both created about the things we lived through together.
“Okay. I’ll think about it.” I hold back everything else I want to say. I’m not ready to give up my version of our story. I’d have to give up too much with it.
Roger says something I can’t hear, and Mom replies, “One minute, love.”
Love.Maybe that’s what’s made the difference with her now. She actually feels loved.
“Roger needs my help, but I’ll call you soon.” She pauses, then says the words we’ve rarely said to each other. “I love you.”
Chapter 18
Adam
I don’t see Evie for a few days. I hear her upstairs. She likes music, and she likes it loud. I just wish she liked it good. I can only take so much Ed Sheeran. And by so much, I mean none.
Her Ed Sheeran love doesn’t keep me from peeking out the window in the morning to see if she’s headed out for a run or watching for her at the store. She’s got to get more groceries at some point, and there’s nowhere else in Paradise to do it except for the gas station. I even look for her truck around town when I’m driving.
The only place I see it is in the driveway, when it’s there. It’s gone most of the day Monday, and Tuesday she doesn’t come outside at all. And I try not to wonder where she’s been or what she’s doing, but it’s hard not to think about a person when she lives upstairs. Especially when I can’t get her eyes out of my mind.
I think of them as I shelve blue boxes of product at the store, trying to decide if her eyes are darker. The answer is yes, but only sometimes, because her eyes are a million different shades of blue, not some flat, unchanging box color. So, yeah, I feel a little dumb for even comparing them to a box. And even dumber for thinking about her at all.
At the same time, it feels good to think about someone besides Dakota. Also terrifying. I have to keep reminding myself that Evie is only here temporarily. I’m not. Paradise is my home. Always will be. As much as I’m attracted to Evie—yeah, I admit it—I still have a hard time believing she’s just here to renovate Grandma Rose’s. There’s something more going on.
Wednesday night, I luck out. I’m at the restaurant after-hours, jamming with Sebastian and Bear, when there’s a knock at the front door. More like a pounding, which we only hear when we stop long enough to decide which song to practice next.
“You want me to see who that is?” Sebastian is already headed toward the door before he finishes asking, so I don’t bother answering.
He smiles wide when he reaches the glass door and unlocks it.
“Hey. Good to see you again. You wanna come in? What have you got there?” He holds the door open, and Evie steps in holding something that looks like a pie dish.
She glances at Sebastian, but her eyes travel the distance from him to me before she answers. “I brought you something.” She lifts the dish, her hands in oven mitts.
“Smells good,” Sebastian says, but she’s walking my way.
I rack my guitar and meet her at the edge of our stage area. The smell of apples and cinnamon greet me before she does.
