Page 35 of Villainous Summer

Summer was standing in the living room, inspecting my mom’s collection of vintage teacups on a shelf.

Grabbing my fork, I slid the cake toward me from her side of the counter as she traced a finger over the edge of a teacup.

Since moving back in, I hadn’t invited anyone over to the house, opting to meet my few friends in town for a beer. Between starting my new job, tending to my mom, and working on the Datsun, interior decorating had fallen to last on the list.

“They were my grandmother’s. She passed them down to my mom. I think Mom wished she had a daughter or a niece or something to give them to, but it’s just me. It’s my mom’s house. I’ve only lived here for a few months and haven’t had time to redecorate.”

“Oh, is your mom—around—or . . .” She glanced around in horror. “Oh, God, please say she’s still around.”

I hesitated. “She lives at Glenwood Assisted Living.”

“She has MS. About a year ago, she had a nasty fall. I tried moving in with her to help, but she insisted on moving. She still has her independence, a little apartment with no stairs to navigate, and they have medical personnel there who can help when she needs it.”

It wasn’t a shameful secret or anything, but to dump my personal issue on her when we barely knew each other felt wrong. In the end, I figured a little information would be okay.

Summer opened her mouth, glancing around the house and then, as if she thought better of it, closed it.

“Are your parents divorced or . . .” She shook her head. “Sorry, that was too nosy of me.”

“No. My parents are still married—technically. But my father lives in Illahee with his girlfriend. Has for the past ten years. But they refuse to get divorced. Keeping her on his health insurance is the least he could do.” I sighed. “When my mom had her fall, I sold my place in Seattle and moved back here.”

“You left a condo and a job you loved in Seattle to help your mom?”

I nodded.

While I wanted nothing more than to bash my asshole of a sperm donor, I couldn’t unleash that on Summer. She must have sensed that there was more to be said but didn’t pressure me.

She turned to look at the teacups, her finger still trailing over the glass. “When I was little, my cousin Autumn had this beautiful tea set. It had little pink roses on it. I would go over to her house every day after school, and my Aunt Lorelle would make us sweetened tea and toast with apple butter. Once, I snuck one of the teacups home, hiding it under my bed, but my dad found it and made me give it back.” She looked back at me, a sad smile playing on her lips. “My dad did the best he could, but there weren’t pretty teacups at our house.”

“Is your mom not in the picture?”

“She’s in loads of pictures.” She laughed, shaking her head. “My mother is what I’d like to call a wanderer. I’m sure the same things that made my father fall in love with her are exactly why she was never suited for life in Ridgewood. She left when I was two. The last postcard I got from her, she was living out of one of those converted buses somewhere in New Mexico. Her pictures have been published in magazines. She’s a wonderful photographer but kind of a shitty mom.”

She blinked at me a few times, her cheeks tinting pink. “Sorry, trauma dump. I swear I don’t normally blab about myself like that. Boring, right? Wah, wah—crappy parents are a dime a dozen.”

“Doesn’t make them less crappy.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

Her blue eyes held mine, an awareness passing between us. The urge to stand beside her was overwhelming me until she looked away.

“Ugh, emotions, right? So gross.”

“Disgusting. Who needs them?”

“Exactly.” She tapped one on the glass with her nail. “Someday, I’ll get some pretty teacup just like this. Something to pass onto my children.”

“You want to use one? I can wash the dust off one and make, um.” I pictured my sparse pantry. Any tea I had was my mother’s and likely expired. “I have coffee?”

She shook her head. “No. I wouldn’t dare. Even if they are beautiful. Maybe some other time.” Taking a seat on the stool, she grabbed hold of the bakery box and tried to pull it toward her, but I held tight.

“Is that oil change sticker on your windshield from the last time you took your car in?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Yeah, I keep topping it off, but I haven’t had time to go into the shop and get hosed by the mechanics there. Normally, my dad would do it for me, but he hurt his knee at work a few years ago, and I don’t want to ask him.”

“You need to at least get your oil changed.”

“Are you lecturing me on car maintenance right now? I’ve owned that beater for years. She’s got plenty of good miles on her.”

---