I don’t want to worry her, and this would send her into an epic fit.
“My goodness, I’m so glad you’re okay,” she says sternly, leaning away to examine me again. “How long are you here for?”
“Forever, actually.”
Her eyebr
ows shoot up, but it’s my father who speaks. “I take it that means you’ve moved back?” He enters the living room, dropping a quick kiss on my cheek. Dad’s tall and a little thick around the middle from sitting behind a desk the last twenty years, and his beloved recliner squeaks when he drops down into it. His eyes lift to mine then, and he gives me a quick study. “And what happened to your face?”
“Jason,” Mom snaps, brushing her flour-covered hand through her short brown bob. “That’s a terrible way of welcoming your daughter home.”
I laugh at Mom’s flour-dusted hair and then move to my dad, taking a seat on the flowered couch next to the recliner. “Nothing major. I got in a car accident.”
Dad picks up the remote control off the table, his eyes narrowing on me. “You’re all right?”
“Yup, all good.”
His expression softens with his smile, instantly warming my heart. My dad’s smiles are offered with restraint. He doesn’t extend warmth to everyone. And somehow that makes them more special.
“When did you decide to move home?” he asks, looking toward the door before addressing me again. “And where are your bags?”
Where Mom’s innocent and naïve, Dad is suspicious and protective. “Allie actually offered for me to stay at her condo.”
“Oh, that’s nice of Allie,” Mom replies, shaking the flour out of her hair. “She’s such a lovely girl. How is she?”
“She’s good and madly in love.”
“What wonderful news,” Mom says.
My chest begins to lighten a little. No more questions about the bruises. No demanding I move back home. I made it out of this unscathed. I love my parents, but I love my independence, too.
“Well, since you’re home, come on.” Mom waves me into the kitchen. “You can help me finish up the cookies.”
Dad clicks the remote control, turning on the television, like nothing has changed. My parents are creatures of habit. If Dad’s not working, he’s watching sports. If Mom’s not cleaning, she’s baking.
And I wouldn’t change them for the world. These are my people.
I follow Mom into the kitchen and all I can think of is how much I’ve changed, even if they haven’t, and how much I want to get back to who I was when I left this house five years ago, ready to conquer the world. Still, when I spot the white kitchen cabinets, and smell the peanut butter cookies, I know I’m a veteran survivor.
Life hasn’t broken me yet.
I’ll bounce back. I always do. But where I’ll end up is the part I haven’t figured out exactly.
I keep the thought to myself as Mom removes the batch of cookies from the oven, leaving the hot pan on the stove, and then settles in behind the kitchen island. “I thought you said you were cutting down on baking because of Dad’s cholesterol.”
“Oh, he’s fine, and far too grumpy without cookies.” Mom fetches more flour out of the bag, then places it in the mixing bowl. “Come help me mix up the second batch?”
I step in next to her, glancing into the mixer and turn it on to Stir, waiting for the flour to mix in before I turn the switch to Beat. The mixing spoon begins moving in hypnotic circles, spinning the mixture, faster and faster, and with the tantalizing smell of the sweet combination of sugar and butter spiraling through the air, I’m brought back to a time when I once baked these same peanut butter cookies for someone else.
“We can’t do this anymore.”
Darius’s words brush across me the moment I enter his office and place the plate of peanut butter cookies onto his desk. It’s seven o’clock at night and no one else is here. He’s careful about our relationship, ensuring that no one ever sees me. Even though he’s looking at me, I glance at his ear, wondering if he’s talking on the phone.
“Did you not hear me?” he asks, sitting at his desk.
That’s when I realize he is talking to me, and I can see plainly that he’s not in a good mood. “What can’t we do?” I ask hesitantly.
“This. Us.”