“Fuck you,” Jacob said pointedly. “Tell Mom not to wait for me to start dinner. Just save me food.”
“I’ll let her know,” Rory tells him.
“Thanks. Nice to see you again, Dean,” Jacob says and hurries out the door.
Rory pulls out a box full of takeout bags, and I recognize the smell instantly. Silver Café is one of the few places in Silver Ridge that’s open past ten PM. It’s right along Silver Lake, with a large outside patio dining area that offers amazing views of the lake at night. And they have the best damn Detroit-style Coney dogs and fries.
“I’ve been craving these,” Rory muses as she unrolls the takeout bag.
“Craving?” Mom comes around the corner, holding a sleeping baby.
“Mom,” Rory quips. “We’re trying to get him to lie down in his crib for naps.”
“Oh hush,” Mom tells her, smiling down at Adam. “How often does Nana get to hold him?”
Rory opens her mouth to protest, but Dean rests his hand on her shoulder, stopping her. He knows it won’t do any good.
“And you’re craving food?” Mom asks hopefully, eyes wide. “Are you pregnant?”
“No,” Rory says back right away. “Adam isn’t even four months old yet. It’s not even possible.”
“Well, it is possible,” Dean whisper-talks to Rory. She blushes and elbows him. “I’m not pregnant, it’s been a while since I’ve had these.”
“They are good,” I agree, grabbing a hot dog and sitting at the island counter. Mason takes two and goes to the table, checking his phone for any calls from work. He can never tell us all the details of what he’s working on until the cases are closed.
“Is Dad picking up Nana Benson on the way home from work?” Rory asks.
“Yes, and she’s so looking forward to seeing her great-grandson,” Mom tells her.
“I don’t know how she’s still alive and kicking,” Mason says casually. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad she is, but that woman just won’t stop. I hope I inherited her genes.”
“Remember that mouse I had when I was a kid?” Rory asks. “Goldie.”
“That thing wouldn’t die,” I laugh. “Are you making a Nana Benson-Goldie comparison?”
“Yes,” Rory chuckles. “Goldie was like eight before she finally passed. Nana is just like that. She’s in her late eighties, went through hip and knee replacements, and is still as spunky as ever.”
“You had a mouse live for eight years?” Dean asks dubiously.
“Maybe seven and a half. I took really good care of her.”
I look at Mason, knowing he was responsible for the murder of the OG Goldie when he went into Rory’s room to get something, forgot to close the door, and our family cat ate her. Mom and I spent six hours driving around trying to find a mouse that looked like Goldie, putting her in the cage before Rory noticed.
And when Goldie Number Two died on Christmas Eve, Mom wasn’t going to let it ruin Rory’s holiday. Rory was seven at the time and spent an entire day making a Christmas village out of cardboard boxes for her damn mouse. That time Dad drove all the way to a pet shop in Indiana to get a replacement.
Mason gives me the slightest shake of the head, saying he wants to let Rory keep believing it was her impeccable care and love that kept the mouse alive for an impossibly long time. She has to know, I’m sure, because that’s not a normal lifespan. At all.
“You’re just staying the weekend?” Rory asks.
“Yeah,” I tell her, even though I don’t have to be back to work until Wednesday. Trauma has a high burnout rate and our clinic has set everyone up on an impressive rotation schedule, giving us a much-needed break every few months. Stacey and I had plans to go to New Orleans for a quick four-day getaway, staying in a historic bed and breakfast. I considered going on my own, but canceled at the last minute. My current plan is to visit with family for the weekend and then go home and spend the rest of my time off watching TV, playing video games, and eating junk food.
I’m okay with that.
“Oh, you’ll never guess what I heard,” Rory says, taking a bite of her hotdog. We all look at her, waiting for her to finish chewing to go on.
“Yes?” Mason asks impatiently.
“Chloe Fisher is in town!”
My heart skips a beat and my stomach tightens at the mention of her name. It’s been years since I’ve seen her, and I’ve worked hard over those years not to think about her, which is hard to fucking do since her name and face are all over the place. If it’s not an advertisement or article about one of her books, TV series, or upcoming talk show interviews, then it’s pictures of her with the various celebrities she’s dated.
I’m happy for her, really, I am. Chloe got exactly what she wanted, and I know it wasn’t easy for her. She worked hard to push forward with her dreams of writing despite being bullied. She stood her ground and refused to bend, saying she’d rather be herself and alone than fake and popular. I always respected the hell out of her for it. It’s not easy to have that sort of confidence, especially when we were teenagers.