“I’d ask you in but I’m kind of sick of your face.”
“It’s mutual.” I blew her a kiss and made sure she got inside before taking off.
From there, it was ten minutes to the Conrad household. Getting from one side of town to the other never took longer than fifteen minutes. There was no traffic to speak of, not even a stoplight, though sometimes farmers screamed at each other at our solitary stop sign, which was prestigiously located next to the Stop and Go, a combination gas and convenience store.
Since it was only eight, local time, my parents were up and anxiously watching out the window for me. I had texted my mom twice on the road to reassure her that we were fine. Both she and my dad charged outside to greet me, neither wearing coats or shoes. My dad grabbed my bag out of the back as Mom hugged me.
“Let’s get inside.” Dad steered me toward the front door, decorated with a turkey, a straw wreath and dried chrysanthemums.
In the house, I noticed a few changes. They’d painted the living room a warm cream, replacing the rose that my dad complained about for two years. New slipcovers on the furniture, a few new bird statues; my mom collected them. My brother, Rob, was sprawled on the couch, more impressive than I remembered, broader through chest and shoulders.
“String bean!” He levered off the couch to hug me, and I elbowed him in the ribs when he tried to turn it into a noogie.
My mom went into the kitchen to make tea. She was the reason I drank it late at night, a small way of holding on to her, I guessed, though I hadn’t realized it until now. My dad sank into his recliner with a relieved sigh while Rob turned down the volume on the TV.
“Wow, I outrank sports? When did this happen?”
Rob leveled an inscrutable look on me. “When you started coming home once a year.”
“Don’t make Nadia feel bad. She’s working hard at school,” Mom called.
“Speaking of work, how’re your grades looking?” Dad raised a brow at me.
When he used a certain tone, I felt fourteen, not twenty-one. “Good. My midterms were excellent, actually.”
Once my mom came in with the drinks, I shared my scores and then caught up on the local gossip. By ten, however, I was ready for bed. After such a long drive and losing two hours, it felt much later. No wonder, it’s midnight at home.
Once I doled out kisses and hugs, plus promises for more catching up in the morning, I headed up to my old room. Mostly, it was how I’d left it when I moved out with all of my high school treasures still on the shelves, still painted purple and white. My bed here was bigger than the one at school, though. I had a full-size with a good mattress, and it felt luxurious when I snuggled beneath the covers. My mom had washed them fresh; I smelled the fabric softener.
Before I passed out, I plugged my phone in beside the bed. One message from Ty.
Let me know you’re okay. Please?
I’d ignored texts from guys before, often because they seemed needy or demanding, but I registered this for what it was. Concern. It was a long-ass trip during uncertain weather. So I sent back,
With my parents, safe and sound. Happy Thanksgiving.
The next morning, I was up before anyone else, a side effect of losing two hours; at home it was almost eight. I was making coffee when my dad came into the kitchen. He stumbled as he spotted me, and I shot him a teasing smile.
“Did you forget I’m here?”
“Just clumsy in my old age.”
“Psht. You’re what, thirty-six?”
He laughed. Smile lines crinkled his weathered skin. In all honesty, he looked a bit older than his early fifties, though I couldn’t recall if he’d looked this way when I was home last summer. I hoped financial worries weren’t keeping him up at night.
“Anything you want to tell me?”
My dad loved this game. As a kid, he’d tricked me into confessing all sorts of things, panicked over his alleged omniscience. But I was savvy now, too wise to fall for this again. So as I made breakfast, I told him about the practicum and the kids I wished I could help.
As always, he listened with quiet interest. When I served his scrambled eggs, he put an arm around my waist, his arm trembling a little. It wasn’t like him to be so emotional.
“I don’t tell you enough, bean, but I’m so proud. Here I barely finished school and you’ll be teaching it. You always were so damn smart. Hell, I stopped being able to help with your homework before you hit high school.”
Vaguely disquieted, I hugged him. Glancing over my dad’s head, I found Rob frozen in the doorway. His eyes were deep and sad, and I knew he’d heard. It couldn’t be easy for him, and I wished I could make it better. But our relationship had been strained for years.
It’s your fault.
A memory surged forward. I was all of fourteen and he was on the verge of graduation. He’d caught me sneaking out and was lecturing the shit out of me. I’d flipped my hair and said snottily, Like I need life lessons from you, moron. You can’t even pass remedial math. Where’re you going to school again next year? Oh, right. I wished an apology could fix it, but seven years later, things were still awkward and broken between us.
I beckoned my brother, wishing we were closer. “Come on in,” I said. “Do you want your eggs scrambled or fried?”
“Fried, please. Sunny-side up.”
My mom came in a few minutes later, rubbing her eyes, so I cooked for her, too. Afterward, we pitched in as a family on prepping the turkey and baking corn bread for the dressing. Rob chopped celery while I did the onions. As expected, I didn’t hear from Ty, and that was fine; I was too busy gossiping with my mom and helping her with the feast. It had been years since I’d done this, and I was surprised to find I’d missed it. She was a good cook, always managing four things at once, and I tried to keep up.
I was straining broth for the stuffing when she asked, “Are you seeing anyone?”
I couldn’t help a blush when Ty sprang to mind, though our relationship didn’t fit my mom’s criteria. But she was too sharp not to notice. “Tell me about him,” she demanded.
“He’s hot. Smart. Studying to be an architect, but he also works full-time. He’s putting himself through school.”
She was smiling as she kneaded the dough for homemade yeast rolls. “I like the sound of that. Is he a junior like you?”
“I’m not sure where he is in the program. He’s twenty-four.”
“And still in school?” She tilted her head, puzzled. “Money problems?”