Page 48 of Caught Up In You

I huff out an exasperated sigh and march over to the stove, hustling her aside with my hip so I can turn off the extra burner.Then I snatch the dish towel out of her hand and set about cleaning up the mess.

“Honey, I was gonna get to all that as soon as I finished with the pancakes,” Libby says in that leathery, syrupy Southern drawl that I know started out fake but by now is probably her true voice.

“Right,” I mutter, because in the four months I’ve been roomies with my mother, I’ve become all too familiar with her brand of cleaning. It usually consists of sweeping everything into an overfull trash can, stacking the dishes in the sink to “soak” (until someone else comes along to rinse them and load them into the dishwasher—spoiler alert, it’s never her), and fucking off to vape in the backyard.

“I was!” She flips the pancakes, rogue batter flying.

“Good morning!” Hazel says, padding into the kitchen with Eden on her hip. Her eyes go from Libby and her culinary disaster to me. Ever the peacemaker, Hazel plasters on a smile. “Oooh, pancakes! We love pancakes, don’t we, Eden?”

“That’s right, Little Edie!” Libby says in that sickly baby voice she uses.

“You know Little Edie was a tragic figure, right? Emotionally stunted by her abusive mother? Quite the legacy to bestow on your granddaughter,” I say.

Libby rolls her eyes like a snotty teenager. “Give it a rest, Wyatt.”

Noticing the way my jaw is clenching as I try to bite back my words, Hazel passes me the baby while she starts making Eden’s morning bottle.

“How was the dance marathon?” she asks.

Like she’s cast a spell, my tension melts away. Owen McBride is a gift that keeps on giving, apparently, because simply calling up the memory of last night floods my body with heat.

“That good, huh?” Hazel grins.

“Be careful, that kind of starry-eyed glow is how you wind up saddled with one of these,” Libby says, taking Eden out of my arms.

And just like that, my body cools. “Wow, you’ve managed to insult both your daughtersandyour granddaughter in one sentence. Impressive.”

Libby waves me off with the spatula, hoisting Eden higher on her hip. “Oh, that’s not what I meant.”

I drag the trash can over and swipe the eggshells into it with a little too much force. One pings off the edge of the lid and skitters across the linoleum floor. Watching the gooey bits settle beneath the fridge makes something snap inside me. Twelve years of resentment bubbles up all at once, everything I’ve been holding back since Libby showed up on the curb back in January. Suddenly my exhaustion is secondary to the rage adrenaline boiling inside of me.

“Really? Because that’s the message you gave me when you sent me packing at eighteen.”

Libby’s eyes go wide, like I’ve slapped her, and I take a sliver of satisfaction in the notion that I’ve caught her off guard. I’ve been playing nice for Hazel and Eden and the Indiana State Board of Corrections, but a girl can only bite her tongue for so long.

“That’s not what—” Libby protests, and then Hazel steps between us.

“Come on, guys, it’s early, we’re all tired,” she says.

“Oh, I’m tired, all right. Tired of her pretending she has any authority to hand out motherly advice,” I snap. “She gave up that right more than once. Like the time you went to that casino after work and left me waiting at school forthree hours. Or the time you forgot to pay the water bill and they shut it off for aweek. Oh wait, that happened twice! And of course, let’s not forget thetime you went toprisonbecause you cared more about some lowlife deadbeat boyfriend than your own daughter.”

Now Libby’s mad, and she passes Eden back to Hazel so she can wave her spatula in my face. “Don’t talk to me like that,” she says, the venom overtaking the Southern drawl.

“Or what, you’re gonna kick me out of this house too?” I say, toe-to-toe with her.

“Stop it!” Hazel shouts, and at the unusual rise in her voice, Eden begins to cry.

“Fine,” I grind out, spinning on my heel and stomping out of the kitchen.

In my room, I pace, hands on my hips as I mutter all the angry words I want to say to Libby. It would be such a relief to tell her once and for all that she fucked up my childhood, that she fucked up Hazel’s childhood, and that I won’t let her do the same thing to Eden. The notion that she shouldeverfeel entitled to offer me advice or correct me like a naughty toddler islaughable. It’s downright offensive.

A gentle knock at my door freezes me along the track I’m wearing into the carpet. “What?” I call, because I am not letting Libby into this room. Not now, not ever.

“It’s me,” Hazel replies, then cracks the door.

I let out a breath. “Come in.”

Hazel steps in, closing the door gently behind her, then settles onto the end of my bed.

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