Tate chuckles. "Remember when his bald head turned red yelling at you for leaving class to pee? I thought he'd rupture an artery."
"I certainly hoped he would. It was so stupid. I was done with my test and had turned it in. It wasn't like I could cheat. And I was going to pee, one way or another. I just didn't want to do it on the floor in the classroom."
He turns right, and the houses look familiar. We're close. My palms are slick with sweat.
"I can't believe Mom grounded you for that," he says, frowning.
"Oh, you know our parents. Sticklers for the rules and respect. Heaven forbid a girl is in the right when a male teacher is wrong."
My phone beeps, and I check it, smiling.
Made it safe, I hope? Missing you.
Sebastian. My heart hurts at how much I already miss him.
Missing you too. Just getting to my parents house. Funeral is tomorrow at 2. We should be coming home Sunday.
Not sure I'll make it that long, but I'll try. Would it be inappropriate to say that I miss the feel of being inside of you?
A buzz of remembered pleasure courses through me.
Thanks for making me hot and bothered right before seeing my family for the first time in forever. I owe you for that.
If payment includes you being in my arms, I'll gladly accept it.
We pull into my parents’ driveway, and I take a deep breath and get out, stuffing my phone into my pocket.
It's the smell that hits me first. Too many flowers and the scent of casseroles. It smells like a funeral.
And it looks like old school country with floral everything and knick-knacks everywhere.
My mom comes out of the kitchen wearing an apron, her eyes red-rimmed but nothing else out of place. Her brown hair has faded, leaving more strands of grey than I remember seeing last time, and there are new lines on her face. I realize with shock that my mother is getting old. She smiles when she sees us. "My two long-lost prodigal children home at last."
"Hi Mom." I reach over to give her a hug. "How you holding up?"
She brushes aside my concern. "I'm fine of course. Your grandmother has been sick a long time. We knew it was coming. I just wish you could have come before she died. She would have liked to see you in the end."
I don't know how to reply to that so I don't say anything. Tate saves us from the awkward silence by offering his own hug and then rubbing his stomach. "It smells delicious in here. Any chance some of that food is for me?"
I roll my eyes at him when my mother turns away to lead us into the kitchen, but I follow, because I too could use something to eat.
"Where's Dad?" I ask, looking around. The kitchen hasn't changed at all. The red teapot is still on the same stove, with cast iron pots hanging over the island. The same maple oak table sits to the side, by the window, and I have a flash of sitting there with Tate and our sister Jessica, eating freshly baked cookies and drinking milk. I smile at the memory as we each sit where we always sat as a family, while my mother serves us lunch.
"He's around here somewhere," she says.
As if on cue, my dad comes in. He's a big man with a lot of meat on his bones, though not fat. He fills a room with his presence, and when he sees us, he grins. "Why didn't you tell me you were here!"
He kisses the top of my head, shakes Tate's hand and sits down next to us, waiting for his lunch.
My mom joins us last with her own plate. It's a casserole, of course, but it's good, and I have seconds.
They ask about our business and our lives. We keep our answers brief because they don't really want to know the details of what we do.
"And what about any men in your life, Kacie? I'd love some grandchildren before I'm too old to enjoy them, assuming you’d ever bring them to visit." My mom tries to say this lightly, but it comes out bitter.
"Why do you never ask Tate these questions? He's the same age as me and just as capable of making babies."
My mom collects our dirty dishes and begins washing them and putting them away. "Don't start, Kacie. We don't need your feminist nonsense this weekend. I just want to see you settled down and happy before it's my funeral you're all attending."
Dad looks away, clearly uncomfortable with all this “female emotion” as he always called it. Finally, he clears his throat. "Well, I'd best be getting back to work. Need to mow the lawn and clean up the yard a bit before the funeral tomorrow. Good seeing you kids."
That's my dad. Man of few words.
My mom's not done with us yet, though. "It's different for women, and you know it. Men have time. They don't dry up as fast as us. They don't lose what makes them attractive to the opposite sex. Women have to strike young, while the iron's hot, as they say. Before all the good men are taken, and you lose your looks and ability to get a man."
This is just too much. I can't believe this bullshit. "Because a guy is only going to be interested in me for my looks? Is that really the kind of man you want me to end up with?"