Page 139 of Even Exchange

Hibiscus Pines.

3 Miles.

Blowing out a breath, I ignore the reminder of my proximity to Mom’s neighborhood. It’s been a week since I found out about the baby, and I’ve avoided her calls since. How can I pretend everything is normal when my entire life changed with two words?

Mom reads me too well.

She’d know something is up.

There’s no way I can hide the absolute inner panic I feel. I already have to do that around Charlotte so she doesn’t get spooked and bolt under some ridiculous act of self-sacrifice, thinking it’s what’s best for me.

Turn arrows appear in the empty lane to my right, and my skin crawls with awareness.

“Screw it.” I swerve and take the exit.

Ten minutes later I pull in the driveway, my veins buzzing, and park beside Mom’s car. Tony must be working since his truck isn’t here. That’s fine. She’ll tell him later.

Hopping out of the truck, I force myself toward the house before I lose my nerve.

As I walk by the garage door, my eyes snag on the dented bottom corner, the damage courtesy of my father throwing me against it after I broke the side mirror of his car with a football when I was twelve.

My fingers go to my scalp by reflex, tracing the eight stitches hidden by hair. Even if they aren’t visible, I still know they’re there.

At the front door, I let myself in because though I’ve been gone for years, this is still home. Scars and all.

“Hello?” Mom calls from the kitchen, her face lighting up when I turn the corner. “Oh,sole mio!” She rushes over, throwing her arms around me, placing a kiss on each cheek, then pulls back, brow furrowed. “Perché non mi hai richiamata?” She takes my face in her hands, moving it in all directions. “Sei malato?”?1

I chuckle nervously, swatting her away. “No, non sono malato.”?2

“Allora perché non mi hai richiamata? Mi richiami sempre. Ero preoccupata.”?3

“Mamma, sto bene.”?4

“You’re lying,” she says, swapping to English and squinting at me. “Come.” She walks towards the kitchen island and grabs the floral Lego set I bought her for Mother’s Day on the way.

“You haven’t built it yet?” I ask.

“I was waiting so we could do it together,” she says with a soft smile, and guilt racks me that I didn’t make time for it sooner.

We sit side by side, and she rips the little plastic bags, dumping small pieces on the counter. After a few minutes, all the parts are organized by color and shape.

“So,” she says. “Want to tell me why my son is ignoring my calls and looks like he hasn’t slept in a month?”

I bite my lip, placing two green Lego pieces of the stem together. “I don’t really know where to start.”

The front door opens and Tony walks in, briefcase in hand.

“Hey!” he says, a big smile on his face when he sees me.

“Hi,” I reply.

“Are you okay?” he asks, setting his briefcase on the counter. “You look sick.”

“See?” Mom says, waving a hand at me.

I blow out a breath. “Want to join us?” I ask Tony.

Mom’s going to end up telling him anyways, and I can honestly use all the moral support I can get right now.

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