All of the sunflowers and dahlias had closed up in the piercing late autumn chill. The oak trees in the yard were holding on to their last leaves, brown and dull, waiting their turn to float down to the rain-soaked walkway. I pulled open the creaky wooden door to our downtown bungalow and wiped my boots on the mat.
“Mom,” I called, unwinding my scarf and laying it on the coat rack, shucking off my jacket as well. A toasty warmth wrapped around me as I breathed in the familiar scents of home—something baking in the oven, a fire in the fireplace, and fresh laundry.
“In here.” Her voice carried from the living room to the hall. I made my way down the entryway and turned left before the stairs. Mom lay sprawled across the couch, two blankets tucked over her. She sat up when I entered the room, and a smile spread over her face. “There’s my love bug.” She held out her arms, and it took every ounce of restraint not to barrel into her.
Since starting chemo, she’d lost about ten pounds. She’d already been fit from her marathon training and Crossfit, so the loss was a more substantial hit to her slender frame than it would be on others. Her collarbone jutted out sharply, and her cheeks had sunken in. The sight formed an automatic knot in the back of my throat.
I sat on the couch beside her and leaned on her shoulder, breathing in her comforting smell. My mom’s signature scent hadn’t changed since I was a child: a hint of ginger, peppermint, and vanilla, like a complex latte that you can’t help but want to bury your nose in because it smells so good.
“You look tired,” she said, smoothing her thumb over my cheek.
I cocked my head and did the smart thing, keeping my mouth shut. The irony did not escape me.
In fact, “you’re tired” ranked right up there with one word answers to texts—both annoyed the ever-loving crap out of me. Because, really, it was a socially acceptable way for someone to tell you that you looked like shit. Then again, with the long hours I’d been putting in at work, there was no denying that I’d be adding wrinkles instead of tan lines for the unforeseeable future. A few years in the job and I’d look like the before and after on a D.A.R.E. poster. This is you on four hours of sleep, deadlines, and 100 milligrams over the Recommended Daily Allowance of caffeine.
“Long drive.” I didn’t need her worrying about my work schedule. She had to focus on her health, solely.
She gave me another once-over, but didn’t say anything else on that subject. “How is work? Is that obnoxious twit Jackson still giving you a hard time?”
The name elicited a Pavlovian eye roll and the sudden urge to bang my head against something hard. “He’s gotten better. I think he’s finally accepting me into the company.”
“Well, that was inevitable. You’re sweet. How could he not like you?”
“Not everyone has to like me, Mom. This isn’t kindergarten.”
She pursed her lips and patted my thigh. “How is your boss?”
Besides the fact that he turned me down, great. I was still deciding which was more mortifying—the fact that he’d made it clear nothing would happen between us or the fact that I hadn’t even been coming on to him in the first place. “He’s good. Giving me more projects to work on.”
A grin spread across her face. Her smile was a welcome breath of fresh air. If she was smiling, then the world couldn’t possibly be that bad of a place. “Sounds like you’re doing really great. One of these days, when I’m feeling better, I’d love to come to your building and see where you work.”
I smiled. Any talk about the future was both comforting and welcome, and the constant vice grip around my lungs loosened the tiniest bit. “I’d love that, too.”
She grabbed the takeout menu for Greasy Guy’s from the coffee table and raised a brow. “Ready to destroy our girlish figures and ingest a few gut bombs?”
“Always.” The Taylor metabolism hadn’t failed me yet, and I was going to use it to its full advantage for as long as possible.
“I bookmarked a few movies on Netflix that I thought would be good,” she said, pulling up the number for the restaurant on her phone.
I lay my head on Mom’s shoulder and everything else seemed to dissipate. “Sounds perfect.”
The food came forty minutes later, and while I demolished the entire half-pound burger with caramelized onions and enough pickles to be classified as a biohazard, she’d barely taken three bites of hers.
“You okay?” I asked, piling another fry into my mouth.
She frowned down at the burger. “I think my eyes are bigger than my stomach.”