Miss Me Not

"What does 'forget' mean?" she asked, finally releasing my hand that had grown clammy.

"Um, it goes with this," I said, flipping my other wrist over to reveal the word "Me."

"Oh, I see. Sometimes the past can be quite trying. I'm sure all of us would like to be forgotten at times," she said uncannily.

I waited for her next comment. Surely, now would be the time she'd tell me in no uncertain terms about how great her son is and how he needs to stay focused so he can continue on to bigger and better things. I waited for her to tell me I didn't belong in this house filled with its large comfortable furnishings, family pictures and welcoming pumpkin spice smell. She'd be right.

"I baked some chocolate chip cookies and pumpkin bars if you two want to have a snack before dinner," she said, shocking me as she smiled warmly.

"Heck yeah," Dean said, grasping my hand once again as he dragged me to the kitchen.

"Yes, dear, I know you're always hungry. That offer was actually directed at Madison," she said drily, following us into the kitchen.

I paused uncertainly in the archway separating the family room and the kitchen. Black marble countertops sat atop dark cherry wood cabinets with frosted doors that wrapped around the oversized kitchen. Industrial-sized stainless-steel appliances sparkled and gleamed, while an array of pots and pans hung over an island in the middle of the kitchen. Artwork and pictures cluttered the refrigerator door held up by an array of whimsical magnets. Upon closer inspection, I saw that the majority of the magnets were from theme parks in the Orlando area.

Dean laughed when he saw me studying them. "I guess you could say we're theme park junkies. My parents let the twins pick out a new magnet every time we go. This one I picked out though," he said, pointing to a magnet adorned with an enraged Incredible Hulk and a roller coaster zooming around his head.

"You seem a bit obsessed with that ride," I taunted.

"Because it effing rocks," he said, plopping down on one of the tall barstools that separated the kitchen from the dining area.

"Language," his mom said, pulling a tray of cookies out of the oven.

"Eff is not a bad word, Mom," Dean said impishly, standing up so he could load up a plate with cookies and pumpkin bars.

"It is when I don't want the twins telling the kids at the playground to eff-off," she answered, using a spatula to move the hot cookies to the cool marble counter. "Madison, dear, would you like a glass of milk to go with your cookies?"

"Uh, sure," I answered, unaccustomed to having someone cater to me.

"I'll take one too, Mom," Dean said, plopping the plate of baked goods on the counter in front of me.

"I figured that, son," she said, pulling a jug of milk from the fridge. "So, Madison, Dean tells me you're going to join us for our Friday night chaos," she added, placing the tall glass of milk in front of me.

"Um, yeah, I guess, Mrs. Jackson," I said, shooting a look at Dean.

"Call me Sarah," she said, leaning on the counter across from us. "I'm making a roast and potatoes if that's okay."

"My mom makes the best roast," Dean said, rolling his eyes with pleasure.

"That sounds great," I said uncomfortably as they both watched me.

"Lovely. Dinner will be ready in an hour-and-a-half when your father gets home," she said. "I'll be in the twins' room. Wish me luck," she added, heading out of the kitchen.

Silence filled the kitchen following her departure. I struggled to take in my surroundings as Dean munched contently on the baked goods in front of us. I felt like I had fallen headfirst into one of the sitcoms I like to watch. Did people really live this way? Did they genuinely care what went on in each other's lives? It seemed all so foreign to me. This world was the polar opposite of mine.

"So, your mom is nice," I said, helping myself to a cookie.

"Yeah, she's pretty cool."

"What does she know about me?" I finally asked the question that was burning a hole in my stomach.

"What do you mean?" he asked with false vagueness.

"Cut the shit," I said, making a move to get up.

"They know what I know," he admitted, sighing. "Look, Mads, it's just the relationship I have with my parents. They pretty much know everything about me. I wanted them to understand why I like you," he said, grasping my hand. "Trust me, okay?" he implored.

"I'm just not used to this," I said quietly, sweeping my hands out to take in my homey surroundings. "I'm not used to people knowing everything about me.