Page 21

“Come on, sweetheart.”

Mom’s voice carries the same forced brightness she used throughout my teenage years when Dad and I were fighting.

“Let’s get you inside and get you cleaned up.”

I grip my laptop close and the bag of books that still smell like dumpsters and get out of the car. At least I’ll get to have a proper shower. I never intended to come back here and I’ve always known that was about pride more than anything else.

Pride. Look where that got me.

The entryway smells like lemon polish and vanilla candles, exactly like childhood. But underneath I can still smell Nash somehow even though I’ve showered since. I don’t know if the scent is real or if he is so deeply embedded into me that there is no longer any differentiation between him and me.

“?”

I turn toward the voice, nearly dropping my laptop. Fleur stands halfway down the main staircase, her hand gripping the mahogany banister like she might bolt. She’s huge. The chubby toddler has transformed into a teenager with serious dark eyes and Dad’s stubborn chin.

“Fleur.”

Her name scrapes out of my throat. I’ve missed so many years of her life because I’m proud.

She takes the stairs two at a time, launching herself at me before I can react. The impact sends me stumbling backward.

“I missed you so much.”

The words rush out against my shoulder, muffled by my jacket. Her arms circle my waist, around the swell of my belly that’s impossible to hide now.

“Mom said she was going to get you but I didn’t believe it until I saw you.”

Home. This hasn’t felt like home in a long time.

I return her embrace awkwardly, my hands patting her back like I’m consoling a stranger. Which I am, essentially. The girl hugging me feels like a stranger. I should have been here. Maybe before Dad died, it would have been harder to come back but I don’t have an excuse for afterwards.

“You’re so tall,”

I manage, voice thick with emotion.

She pulls back, grinning.

“And you’re pregnant.”

“Yeah, well.”

I shrug.

“Life happens.”

We climb the stairs in single file, Fleur chattering about school and friends. I make the appropriate sounds, but my attention fractures between her words and the family photos lining the stairwell.

They’ve been updated since I left. Fleur beaming in a soccer uniform. Dad’s judicial swearing-in ceremony, his hand on the Bible while Mom and Fleur beam beside him. Another of Fleur, building sandcastles at the beach.

No trace of my existence remains.

“Here we are.”

Mom pushes open the door to what used to be my bedroom.

Used to be. It now has neutral beige walls, a queen bed with a floral comforter, and a generic landscape painting that scream.

“guest room.”

Even the smell is wrong. No lingering trace of my teenage cologne or the incense I used to burn while studying. Just that same vanilla and lemon polish.

“Your father insisted on redecorating after...”

Mom’s voice trails off diplomatically.

After I was disowned.

“It’s fine.”

The lie tastes bitter.

“Thank you for letting me stay.”

She sets my things on the dresser.

“You’re always welcome here, . This is your home.”

But the neutral walls say otherwise.

Fleur hovers in the doorway, picking at her cuticles.

“I kept some of your books. Dad tried to throw them away but Mom saved them. She said she had to get them out of the trash. They’re in my room if you want them back.”

“Thanks.”

I sink onto the edge of the bed, suddenly exhausted. The pregnancy hormones don’t help.

Mom and Fleur exchange glances, some silent communication passing between them.

“I’ll make tea,”

Mom announces.

“The three of us can catch up properly.”

The kitchen table where we gather hasn’t changed. Same cherry wood, same ladder-back chairs. It feels like I just walked out yesterday.

Mom bustles around the kitchen and that’s where the difference is. She makes tea using her good china and she brings out the shortbread cookies she always made for special occasions. I’m not family. I’m a guest.

“I’m due in January,”

I say, one hand drifting to my belly. “A girl.”

Fleur face lights up.

“That’s amazing! What’s her name going to be?”

“I don’t know yet.”

I’ve avoided thinking about names. Planning feels like tempting fate when my life remains so unstable.

“And the father?”

Mom says carefully, her fingers tap against her saucer nervously.

Nash’s face flashes through my mind.

“It’s complicated.”

Mom’s mouth tightens almost imperceptibly.

“He’s not involved?”

Fleur asks with the bluntness of youth.

“I told you, it’s complicated.”

Sharpness creeps into my voice.

“Is it Nash Thorndike?” Mom asks.

I hesitate then nod.

“Can we talk about something else?”

“Of course.”

But we don’t. Instead, the silence stretches uncomfortably. Mom refills our cups while Fleur fidgets with her napkin, picking up on the tension between us.

Finally, Fleur asks.

“How long are you going to stay, ?”

I say.

“I don’t know,”

at the same time that Mom says.

“He’s home now.”

“I think I need a shower,”

I say. I don’t want to think about this now. I just want to get clean and then I want to sleep for about a month.

I don’t sleep for that long, but it’s not far off.

The days blur together in a haze of sleep and gentle maternal care. Mom brings me meals on trays, fusses over my prenatal vitamins, schedules doctor’s appointments with her family physician.

I don’t even look at my phone for the first three weeks. I just turn it off and spend my time sleeping.

I sleep fourteen hours a day, my body finally surrendering to exhaustion I’ve been fighting for months. Years, maybe. Everything crashes down at once.

Fleur stays with me, curled up on the guest room bed next to me while I doze. She talks about school gossip and about the college applications she’s already thinking about.

“I want to study political science,”

she tells me one afternoon.

“Maybe law school after that.”

Following in my footsteps, or Dad’s?

“Why?”

I ask, genuinely curious.

She shrugs, suddenly shy.

“Someone needs to fight for people who can’t fight for themselves. Like you.”

My throat closes unexpectedly. I’ve never been hero-worshipped by a kid before. It’s nice.

“Dad used to talk about you sometimes,”

she adds quietly.

“He did?”

I don’t know how I feel about that. I don’t know how I feel about a lot of things. It feels as if everything has become so fucked up.

I don’t want to talk about Dad. I change the subject.

“Have you seen my phone?”

“Yeah,”

Fleur says. She leans over the side of the bed and passes it over to me.

“I charged it up for you.”

“Thanks.”

I have a lot of missed calls and texts. A lot.

Guilt flashes through me. Yes, I needed this but I should probably have let people know where I went.

There are a lot from Meg: questions, apologies, everything.

I skim it all. There’s too much to read in one go. I need to reply.

Sorry for not replying. I’m back home with my Mom. I’ve just been crashing. Just exhausted. How are things on campus?

She messages back immediately. Thank god. I’ve been so worried. As long as you’re okay. Everything’s gone to shit here. Admin’s cracking down hard. Miss having you around to tell us we’re doing it wrong.

A minute later, the phone starts ringing and we talk for ages. By the time, we’ve hung up, we’ve both apologized a hundred times and things are back to normal.

There are messages from Nash from different numbers, all in the two days after the eviction but nothing after, which is odd. I’m half-tempted to call him in case something has gone wrong, but I can’t do it. I can’t open that door.

One evening, Mom joins me on the couch where I’m half-watching some mindless cooking show.

“, we need to talk.”

Her voice carries an unusual hesitancy.

“About the baby’s father.”

Nash’s scent seems to intensify around me at the very mention of him. My body responds involuntarily, my pulse quickening.

I don’t think I am ever going to get this man out from under my skin.

“What about him?”

“I know you don’t want to talk about the relationship, but there are practical matters to consider. Custody arrangements. Medical decisions. Financial support.”

The baby chooses that moment to kick, hard enough that my hand flies to my belly instinctively. As if she knows we’re discussing her father.

“He wants to be involved,”

I admit quietly.

“He’s made that clear.”

“And you don’t want him to be?”

The question hangs in the air.

“I don’t want to be told what to do.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“I meant him, Mom. He’s so bull headed. Thinks he’s right about everything.”

To my surprise, Mom bursts out laughing.

“What?”

“Oh, I know someone exactly like that.”

Mom reaches over, covers my hand with hers.

“Would it help if I acted as go between? Not about your relationship, but about the practical aspects. Someone needs to establish paternity, discuss custody arrangements.”

The thought of Mom talking to Nash makes my stomach clench. But she’s right. These conversations need to happen whether I’m ready or not.

“You’d do that?”

“If you want me to. I’m good at handling delicate negotiations without getting emotions involved.”

A small smile plays at her lips.

“Years of practice.”

I nod slowly.

“Okay. But just the legal stuff. Nothing else.”

“Nothing else,”

she agrees.

The conversation settles something in my chest, even as it opens new anxieties. At least someone will handle the practicalities while I figure out what I actually want from Nash beyond the chemistry.