“You’re going,” Ashleigh says without missing a beat.
“Yeah, duh.” Ruby rolls her big blue eyes. “I don’t even understand why you’d frame this as a question.”
I don’t know why I expected them to at least pretend to contemplate their answers. I wasn’t even planning on sharing this little tidbit of information. I really only told them because I’m starting to realize that being up front with them saves me a lot of time and energy in the long run. Plus, maybe they’re right and I do need answers.
It’s terrible, but the hard truth is that I do have a heart and feelings. And since I am nearing thirty, it might finally be time to start acknowledging my hurt instead of pretending it never happened.
Leave it to Ruby and Ashleigh to completely flip my life upside down.
“Fine,” I grumble and sit back down. “But if I’m going to go looking for answers, then I’m going to probably need another panini.”
Some people go for liquid courage, but I find courage in carbs and cheese.
To each their own.
Ashleigh fires up the panini maker and I pull out all the cheese from the fridge. The conversation moves away from me and we try to come up with ways for Ashleigh to unload her legging inventory. This might not have been how I expected my day to go, but I wouldn’t change a minute of it.
Somehow, nestled in this small Ohio suburb, I’m figuring out exactly what it means to be happy and feel loved.
Who would’ve thought?
Chapter 22
After paninis and an impromptu leggings fashion show—Ruby ended up buying four pairs, by the way—I head home with a full belly and an even fuller brain.
“Collins?” my mom shouts from somewhere in the house as soon as I walk in. “Is that you?”
I kick off my shoes and hang my purse on the hook next to the door. “Nope, it’s a burglar.”
With the way she refuses to ever lock the front door, I very well could be. I’ve sent her approximately a hundred true crime articles emphasizing the importance of locking your door and not making yourself an easy target, but she always laughs off my worries instead.
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” she says, and even though I can’t see her, I know she’s rolling her eyes. It’s not a mystery where I get some of my mannerisms from. “Come help me in the kitchen.”
I was already heading in that direction, and when I walk in, my heart squeezes at the familiar sight. Almost every cabinet and drawer in the kitchen is wide open. She’s standing in front of a counter covered with a plethora of ingredients I doubt she even needs. In a mystery I’ll never solve, flour is scattered all over her arms and throughout her hair, yet her apron is spotless. Dad’s sitting in his recliner in the living room and Jeopardy! is playing on the TV.
“Oh! I know this one!” My mom shouts like if she’s loud enough, the contestants can hear her. “What is Manarola, Italy?”
I haven’t watched the trivia show since I moved out. It’s a jarring sign of time passed to see the new host in Alex Trebek’s place. He confirms my mom’s random but extensive geography knowledge.
“Impressive!” I lift my hand in the air, forgetting about her flour-covered state until she slaps my hand and a puff of powder explodes around us.
“Thank you very much.” She points to the folded apron in the open drawer by the fridge. “But come on and help me out, will ya?”
I don’t hesitate to take her up on that offer. She’s a chaotic baker, but we always have so much fun in the kitchen. Plus, added bonus, the results aren’t always a total disaster.
“What are we making this time?” I look at all the ingredients on the counter, but I can’t figure it out.
“Lemon cake.” She lifts up a bowl of liquid I’m guessing is lemon juice. “I almost did a strawberry shortcake, but then I got a hankering for cream cheese frosting and had to pivot.”
“A hankering?” I laugh. “What a wild word choice.”
I wish I had my phone to add it to the list of words I have saved in my notes. Every time I hear a word that I don’t think is used enough, I add it to the list and keep it nearby when I’m writing scripts. Hankering is definitely list-worthy.
She smirks and hands me a spatula. “I thought you’d like that one.”
Beyond all the Bible apps on her phone, once I told her about my list, she downloaded a word-of-the-day app. She tries to weave them into our conversations or texts every day—some with more success than others. Let’s just say there’s no way to drop anthropomorphic into casual conversation.
My mom straightens her glasses and props her phone in front of her as she reads the recipe. We fall into a comfortable rhythm with her measuring the ingredients while I pour and take charge of the mint-green KitchenAid she got last Christmas.
She checks on the cream cheese to make sure it’s at an acceptable frosting temperature as I begin to distribute the batter to the pans evenly.
“Four layers?” My hands stay steady as I hold the heavy bowl. When I was a kid, she was strictly a sheet cake and cupcake girlie. “Your cake-making skills are getting better and better.”
“Oh no. Definitely not four layers. I tried that once before and it looked like the Leaning Tower of Pisa after I frosted it.” She laughs at the memory. “We’re making two cakes. One for us and one for Nate. I’ve been thinking of him since he stopped by that day, and then seeing you two in the parade, I thought this would be nice. Remember how much he liked those lemonade cupcakes I used to make?”
I forget the task at hand and stare at her. This has to be a joke, right?
“Did Ruby call you?” Maybe she snuck off to give my mom a heads-up when I was trying on the hamburger leggings.
“What? No. Why would she call me?” She takes off her reading glasses and focuses her attention on me. “Keep pouring. We need to wash the bowl so I can make the frosting in it.”
I resume my cake job, but my mind is still racing. What are the chances that tonight, of all nights, my mom randomly decides to send me marching to Nate’s house? I don’t know if I want to laugh or break out into a cold sweat. Even though I grew up in a very Christian home, I’m still figuring out what I believe. But right at this moment, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel like some outside force was pushing me toward the khaki-wearing man down the street.
After we put the cakes in the oven, my mom settles in on her spot on the couch to watch the legal drama my parents have been streaming and I head upstairs. Everything in my mind feels scrambled. Each time I think I have some kind of plan, something else happens that leaves me feeling like I don’t know what’s up or down. It’s almost as if the constant whiplash of the last few months is just now beginning to hit me. I’m always on edge, waiting for the next shoe to drop.