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Mom looked around the kitchen. “I thought you were going to get some help with decorating.”
“I was. Megan and I talked about it. A lot, actually. But then life got busy with the fundraiser at work, and she and I started dating, and then I didn’t want to spend our time together looking at furniture. I have a folder full of emails with links from her—I just haven’t done anything with them yet.”
Mom frowned. “You need to follow through. It’ll help her know you’re serious about her. You are, aren’t you?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer that. I wanted to say yes, absolutely I was. But there was still this small part of me that wondered if holding back wasn’t a smarter idea. Because what if…
“I see your wheels turning. You’re asking yourself how you know you won’t get thirty-seven years in the future and have her walk away, aren’t you?” Mom shook her head. “You can’t know it. You just have to believe. And trust. And do everything in your power to make sure that you keep your marriage vibrant and alive.”
I tipped my head to the side. “Don’t try to tell me you’re taking onanyresponsibility for this.”
“No. Not really.” Mom shrugged. “It’s hard not to look backward and analyze. Or over-analyze. And there are things I could have done differently.”
“None of that excuses cheating.”
“You’re absolutely right. If your father was dissatisfied, he should have talked to me. We could have worked on things together. And it probably would have been work. He took the easy way out. But the fact remains that there were things I didn’t like, and I stayed quiet, too.”
I wanted to put my fingers in my ears and hum. Loudly. I didn’t like the last little shards of the picture-perfect relationship I’d attributed to my parents being knocked onto the ground and shattered.
Mom’s smile was slight. “Now you’re disappointed with me. Marriage is work, Cody. Every day. And a choice. Every day. And the minute you stop doing the work or making the choice, there are cracks. If you ignore the cracks, they become chasms when you aren’t paying attention. Love is wonderful when it’s fresh and new and everything feels easy. And it’s a different kind of wonderful when it’s been around the block a few times and is covered in battle scars. It’s always worth fighting for. But never think it isn’t a fight.”
The doorbell rang.
I’m not sure what I would have said in response, but I was grateful that I had a reason to turn and walk into the living room. I didn’t think love was some romance movie, music-swelling crescendo all the time. Did I? I’d seen my parents work at their relationship—even having put it on a pedestal, I’d known they worked at it.
I guess I hadn’t realized that the work was sometimes hard.
With a sigh, I pulled open the door.
“Happy Thanksgiving!” Kayla, carrying a laundry basket covered with brown fabric decorated in pilgrim hats and fall-colored leaves, stepped in.
“I can get that.” I reached for the basket.
“I’ve got it. Kitchen, right?” She scooted around me and headed toward the kitchen.
Austin chuckled, following close behind with a foil-covered dish in his oven-mitt bedecked hands. “I tried to take it at the car. She’s protective of her pies.”
I shut the door. “Pies are good. She made them? They’re not from the store?”
Austin’s eyes rounded. “Oh, no. Those are the result of her blood, sweat, and tears. People better rave or she might just lose it. I’ve never seen someone remake pie crust that many times because it wasn’t just right.”
“Wow.” I was happy with grabbing a box of crust out of the freezer section and hoping. And that was when I took the pains to dump a can of filling into a crust and bake it. Usually? Well, usually I figured that was why grocery stores had bakery departments. I nodded toward Austin’s dish. “What’s that?”
“Green bean casserole. Apparently, Thanksgiving doesn’t count without it.”
I snickered. “Take it on back. If it needs to go in the oven to stay warm, Mom can probably figure something out.”
I decided to hang by the door. Megan should be here soon with stuffing and something cranberry. Those were her words, “something cranberry.” I was a little nervous about what form that was going to take, but Mom had raised me to be a champ at taking and choking down a small serving for politeness. I’d manage. Tristan and Wes were also coming. Tristan had said he’d bring rolls—probably from a can that he’d whacked on the counter and rolled into crescents. And Wes was supposed to handle sweet potatoes and the stuff we’d need for the post-dinner gingerbread house contest. Jenna said she was going to try to come, but didn’t volunteer for food since she might end up not making it.
Scott and Whitney had taken Beckett to Kansas. Whitney’s parents thought a family gathering might help cheer up Whitney’s sister, Wendy. While I’d miss having the whole gang here, I got it. And I was glad they were willing to do what they could to help out. I couldn’t imagine what Wendy was going through as she approached the one-year anniversary of losing her husband and daughters.
What would the one-year anniversary of Dad leaving Mom be like?
I didn’t get far down that road before the doorbell rang again. All three of them were there. I think I acknowledged Wes and Tristan as they bustled in and headed immediately to the kitchen, but I wasn’t sure. Megan captured all of my attention.
Would she always be able to make it seem as if the world stopped?
According to Mom, that would wear off. I couldn’t imagine it. I didn’t want to imagine it.
