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I grew up in one of these places, a community called Kenwood. The streets are lined with historic cottages and thick shady trees. My parents were drawn here due to their affinityfor older homes and renovations. Before my brother, Jason, and I were born, they lived in and renovated three homes, making enough of a profit to finally purchase the one they wanted to stay in long term. Jason is five years older than me. He and his fiancée, Kendall, are high school sweethearts and are both mechanical engineers. They’re disgustingly perfect.

My goal is to decompress and try to forget about Axel Rakestraw.

Easier said than done.

Mom’s energy level is on a ten when I wake up the first morning home. I barely get in a cup of coffee before she has us going in an endless cycle of cleaning the house, prepping for Thursday’s dinner, and whatever other task she can come up with.

At least I’m busy.

“Mashed potatoes or sweet potato pie?” my mom asks, looking over an ancient, crumbling cookbook. I’m standing over the kitchen counter, rubbing off the tarnish on the good silverware.

“Sweet potatoes.”

“Good idea.” She scribbles something on her grocery list. “Oh, I saw Lucy Johnson’s mother the other day. She says Lucy already has a job lined up for after graduation.”

“Good for Lucy.” I use my nail to get the polishing cloth into the decorative grooves on a serving spoon.

“Your brother had a job lined up by this point,” she adds in a light tone, “but, of course, he had an internship the summer before and that helped a lot.”

My mother had pushed me into getting an internship before my senior year. I didn’t want to go too far from Wittmore–too far from Brent–so I’d stayed up there and waited tables.

“But…” she continues, “if you can’t find anything you can always move back home. We’re happy to help you out until you find something solid and get on your feet.”

Thatsounds like a nightmare.

“I’ve been to the job fairs on campus,” I tell her, “and I’ve started my applications. Don’t worry, I’ll find something.”

She flips through the cookbook. “I guess if you’re dating someone, it’s possible you’ll want to find a job where they are.”

I’d been waiting for it, the questions about if, and who, I’m dating.

“There’s no boyfriend, Mom.”

“I thought maybe Twyler would set you up with one of her handsome boyfriend’s friends.”

“Mom.”

“Okay, okay.” She holds up her hands. “You never tell me what’s going on. You can’t blame me for asking.”

She always says this, pretending like she wants to know, but does she really? There were a lot of things in my past that she ignored. All those nights sneaking in and out of the house. The condoms she found that I claimed belonged to a friend.

My mother has spent her entire life taking broken things, houses in particular, and doing her best to shine them up and make them perfect. Sometimes I feel like one of those old houses. Everything can seem perfect on the surface, but change a light fixture or touch the plumbing and you realize that underneath, everything is falling apart. A simple project reveals a shit-ton of issues.

I feel like one of those old houses. Start peeling away the wallpaper and you’ll find a rotting wall.

“I’m not keeping anything from you, Mom. There’s just nothing going on. No job prospects. No boyfriends.Especiallyone of Reese’s hockey friends.” I feel the creep of anxiety climbing up my spine. I drop the spoon with the other cleanpieces and say, “I think I’m going to go work on the hedges while it’s nice outside.”

She nods, unaware of the turmoil bubbling under the surface. “I’m going to finish this list so I can get to the market before traffic gets too crazy.”

I step outside and into the sun. Fall is the nicest time in Florida. Not too hot, but not cold enough to bundle up like I would at Wittmore. I wonder if it’s warm in Texas.

Nope.

I’m done with him, remember?We’redone with each other.

Grabbing the hedge clippers I walk over to the fence line and start hacking. The manual labor feels good on my arms. I’ve missed going to the gym–getting out that stress release. When I finish the sides, I head over to the pool deck and snag a chair. Placing it under the hedge, I climb up and push up on my tip toes. The chair wobbles on the uneven surface and I grab the fence for balance, but drop the clippers into the neighbor’s yard. “Son of a bitch.”

“Still have a dirty mouth, I see.”