Page 15

Right when you return from Seychelles, you go to visit your folks in Connecticut.

It’s been a while since you’ve seen your family, and you are enjoying the bubble of privacy a lot.

Nobody was papping you in Africa, and the public, nameless and legion, have no idea that you are flying home.

Still, when your driver pulls up in your parents’ driveway, you have an insane case of jet lag and a headache being amplified by the summer sunlight.

Kai is down in Atlanta having a belated birthday celebration with his own family, and checking on his house down there before preseason gets in full swing.

It feels like there is an immense, football-player shaped void where he should be on the car seat beside you.

Just like there was after you left London.

Why is it getting harder and harder to be without him?

That’s a loaded thought, so you push it down.

“You good, Mister Grayson?” Cal asks tactfully from the driver’s seat.

“Yes. Thank you,” you say. “You have any Tylenol, Cal?”

“Got some Motrin.”

You frown. Having skipped breakfast, ibuprofen is only going to mess up your stomach. “Thank you anyway.”

“Want me to pick you anything up at the store after I drop you off?”

He’s not looking at you in the rearview, which you realize belatedly when you shake your head. “Nah. I’m sure Mom’s got something.”

Entering your childhood home is always a little trippy.

Each time you take that first step into the mud room with its warm oak wainscoting and the shoes lined up against the baseboards, you are transported back to simpler times.

Report cards, Saturday morning baseball games, the miniature Christmas tree that your Mom lights up in the corner during the holiday season.

Right now, there’s nothing there but the coat tree and the whir of the window AC unit.

At the sound of the door, there’s a racket of barking and doggie nails scratching on hardwood.

Apollo comes bounding around the corner, his floppy ears flapping.

Genuinely delighted, you drop the bag you’re holding and kneel.

Your pup is all over you, paws on your shoulders despite his meticulous training, licking your face with joy as his tail wags a million miles per hour.

At the step up to the main house, Artemis hangs back with characteristic hesitance, her big head cocked. Dad? What are you doing here?

The commotion brings your mom to check on the dogs.

“Sterling!” she exclaims happily. “I didn’t hear you come in!”

Apollo isn’t pleased when you stand up again, and he headbutts your legs in pursuit of more attention. Artemis picks that moment to greet you, entangling her big body with that of her brother’s, the two dogs tripping over each other and almost tripping you as you try to hug your mother.

“Oof,” you complain. “Have these two behaved themselves while I was gone?”

“Zero complaints,” she murmurs into your shoulder as she leans over into your embrace. “You know I take any chance I can get to spoil my grand-puppies.”

“Which is code for you giving them too many treats and unlimited people food,” you grumble lovingly.

Your mother snorts. “I’ve never heard of any other dogs having raw, organic diets and on-call nutritionists. You are never going to convince me that some rotisserie chicken is hurting them.” She looks from you to the door. “Where’s Kaius?”

“Visiting his folks. I thought I told you that?”

She shakes her head. “Maybe you did? That’s too bad. I wanted to give him his birthday present.”

“You didn’t need to buy him a birthday present, Mom.”

That one makes her laugh. “Always trying to tell me what to do.”

Finally, the dogs relent and push past you two into the main house, allowing you and your mom to follow. No sooner have you cleared the living room than you hear light footsteps on the stairs, and your older sister peeks around the corner.

“Oh, it’s you,” she says, feigning disappointment. “Did Kai come with you?”

“It’s nice to see you too, big sister,” you say, laying it on thick. “I know it’s been so long, Noemi. Gee, I’ve missed you too! I’m sorry that I’m such a shitty substitute for Kai…”

“Sterling John! Language!” your mother interjects.

Ignoring her, you wrap Noemi up in a big hug, lifting her slightly off the floor. She squeals when you do it, and squeezes your neck.

“Where’s Dad?” you ask. “Might as well get all my hugging in at once.”

“Oh, he’s with his pickleball team,” your mom says. “Have you heard? He’s turning into quite the athlete.”

You deliberately do not make eye contact with your sister, because you won’t be able to keep from laughing. “I think Noemi mentioned that,” you say casually. “That’s great.”

“Back to Kai,” Noemi says abruptly, breaking away from the fraught topic that is pickleball, “we saw him on TV the other day. He was in a yogurt commercial.”

“Oh, yeah?” you say. “Yeah, that’s his deal with Kefi. I don’t watch TV a lot, so I haven’t had him just randomly show up on my screen. I’ve seen the rough cut, though.”

Noemi raises an eyebrow. “I liked the shirtless look,” she says archly. “You haven’t seen your man on national television? Half-naked like that?”

“He looked like a studmuffin,” your mom opines.

You can’t help the grin that’s tugging on your lips. “I’ll be sure to share your comments,” you tell them seriously.

Your mom is making chicken salad for lunch in the kitchen, but it won’t be ready for a little while.

Noemi says that she is almost done with the chapter in the book she’s reading upstairs, but that she’ll be down to eat.

That leaves you to excuse yourself out the back door, to the little guest house where you stay when you come to visit.

It smells clean in there, like someone recently went through and mopped—which, knowing Margo Grayson, she probably did.

You drop your bag on the small couch and walk through the pocket door into the bedroom to drop onto the bed, realizing that you forgot to ask anyone for pain relievers.

Ugh. You quickly decide that getting up again isn’t worth it, and shuffle your body on the bed until you get comfortable, then toe your shoes off and over the edge.

It was probably your mom who drew the curtains over the windows, and you are grateful for those, too.

Grateful for the dark shading of the paneled walls, grateful for the softness of the duvet under you.

Throwing your arm over your face, you breathe slow and steady and inhale the inimitable scent of home : Ivory dish soap, New England breezes, and a little bit of dust. Your phone says that it’s just past one. You’ll close your eyes for a second.

When you wake up (because it turns out that you definitely fell asleep), it’s getting dark.

It’s a little alarming that you wasted the whole afternoon, as you are practically allergic to meaningless days.

Behind the drapes, it’s the wrong side of sunset.

Your stomach is making angry noises, displeased by the fact that you have officially not eaten all day.

Then, you realize why you woke up. There’s a soft, but persistent knocking on the door of the guest house, and your sister’s voice.

“Ster? Sterling. Come on . Are you dead in there?”

Your throat is raspy, and you cough to clear it before speaking. “‘S open, Noemi. Come in.”

You hear the door open, a faint squeaking.

“Are you decent?” she asks.

“Would I have told you to come in if I wasn’t?” you ask, indignant, but without getting up off the bed.

Gracefully, Noemi pads into the room, barefoot. There’s a covered plate in her hand; you can smell it right away. It makes your mouth water. She clicks on the lamp beside the bed, and glares down at you.

“Jesus, Mom was right. You really did pass the fuck out.”

“Don’t judge me,” you whine. “I was literally just on the other side of the world the night before last.”

“Poor baby,” she coos sarcastically. “It must have been so rough sleeping on your private jet all the way from that five-star resort in Madagascar…”

“It was Seychelles.”

“That five-star resort in Seychelles with your hot hunka strapping boyfriend,” she concludes smoothly, without missing a beat. She sets the plate down on the bedside table. “Eat this, or Mom’s gonna have a cow. She says that you probably haven’t eaten all day.”

“Mom doesn’t know my life,” you mutter, glancing over at the plate.

Homemade pasta salad is heaped on one side, mixed with Italian dressing and loaded with black olives, diced cucumbers, onion, halved cherry tomatoes, and mozzarella balls.

Your mother always liked a good pasta salad in the summer.

Beside it, two planks of grilled chicken glazed in barbecue sauce are piled up, along with a generous mountain of baked beans.

You already know that you are going to devour the entire plate, and then go cruising for seconds, regardless of how many calories are involved.

“Just eat,” Noemi prods you. “You’re looking at that food like you just did a 20-year stint in Alcatraz.”

She hands you a knife and fork, and you tear into the food.

The first bites make you want to moan with how good it is.

Your private chef is a James Beard award winner who manages to perfectly balance your macro nutrients with fresh, farm-to-table fare, but you’re pretty sure nothing will ever compare to your mother’s cooking.

“I’m surprised Mom didn’t come herself,” you say, talking with your mouth full.

Noemi sinks into the chaise on the other side of the room. Pulling a tie off her wrist, she scrapes her long hair into a ponytail. Even in the low light, her natural highlights are more reddish than your light brown ones.

“I told her I’d come out,” she shrugs. “I wanted to talk to you.”

That makes you pause with your forkful poised in midair. “What did I do?”

“I see stuff online, Ster,” she says. “I know Mom and Dad do, too. We know you’ve got a lot going on.”