Page 85 of Sweeter Than Fiction

“Pretty good.”

When I let go, she’s able to get a good look at Abby. Walking over to her, she gives her a hug. I worry a little about how Abby will take it. She told me hugs from strangers weird her out a little, but she seems fine with the gesture.

“I’m Denise.”

“Hi, I’m Abby.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Abby. I’m so glad that my son finally found a decent woman he could bring home.”

Without missing a beat, Abby says, “He’s quite the catch.”

That gets the biggest smile out of my mother. “Well, come on. Let’s go inside. I’m making breakfast, and I don’t want the bacon to burn.”

Abby nods. “Lead the way.”

Chapter Thirty-two

Abby

As we walk into Don’s childhood home, the first thing that hits me is the scent of bacon. You can smell it all the way from the porch.

No complaints here.

I love bacon.

But usually, I just make the pre-cooked stuff that you can just zap in the microwave. By the delicious smell, I’m guessing Denise is actually frying it. The last time I attempted that, I splattered hot grease everywhere and about burned my kitchen down.

This morning, I have been a bundle of nerves, but somehow, Don has found a way to bring me back down to Earth a little. I’m sure it also helps that driving from Omaha to here was probably the most serene and peaceful drive of my entire life.

I’d never seen so much open space before. The only times I’ve gotten out of New York were a few family vacations as a kid. And those were just to the Jersey Shore, which was still heavily populated. Nebraska is a whole different environment.

And I’m not complaining.

Give it time, Abby. I’m sure that you can’t get Chinese food delivered at three AM here.

I look around at the cozy living room. It’s so lived-in and homey. A comfortable-looking couch and recliner are the centerpieces of the room that are angled toward a TV that sits on a wooden entertainment center. On the end tables, there are a few lit candles next to some assorted knick-knacks. There are mismatched lamps, a big fuzzy rug, and a little play kitchen in the corner. And there are photos everywhere. I pick up a frame off of one of the tables and look at a little girl that I recognize as Kaylee.

Something about this place makes me feel at ease. Maybe it’s that it’s a lot like my apartment in that there’s no rhyme or reason to it. It’s just filled with Denise’s favorite things, and it’s a collection of a lifetime with her and her family.

I always wanted this kind of feeling growing up, but my parents were much more of the ‘everything has to be clean and white’ mindset. Maybe that’s why I’m so kooky now.

As Don leads me into the kitchen to follow his mom, he says, “Mom, you are cooking Thanksgiving dinner later. You didn’t have to make us breakfast, too.”

“Oh, honey, you know I don’t mind. I love having someone to cook for again. Plus, I figured you two would be hungry since your flight was so early.”

“When are you going to find the time to make dinner?” He asks.

“Donovan, the turkey is already in the oven.” She winks. “This is not my first rodeo.”

I look around the kitchen, which isn’t all that different from the living room. There’s stuff everywhere. Not in a messy way, but it’s just that she has a lot of stuff, and she’s found an individual place for all of it. In this room, in particular, she has a wide assortment of chicken figurines. They line every surface that isn’t used for cooking.

Denise says, “Why don’t you two go get settled in, and I will finish up breakfast. It should be done in about twenty minutes or so.”

“Are you sure, Mom?” Don asks. “We can help.”

“I’m sure. Go relax for a few. We will chat more over breakfast.”

Donovan leads me further back into the house into his old bedroom. Once inside, I see that everything is in various shades of blue. Dark blue curtains. A blue plaid comforter. A light blue rug.

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