Page 26 of Cloudy With a Chance of Bad Decisions

I was not fooling anyone, least of all myself.

“Do you still love him?” Joe frowned.

“No,” I bit out. “Absolutely not.”

“Good.” Joe nodded seriously. He pushed open the gate, and I prepared to see Roderick in the flesh for the first time since we’d broken up a decade prior.

You’re fine, George.

It doesn’t matter what he thinks of you.

He’s just a guy you used to date, nothing more.

I fixed my hair, anyway. Then I adjusted my suit and checked my shoes for dirt streaks or wayward airport gum. Nothing. As spiffy as when I’d shined them that morning. I was grateful they’d dried enough not to bother me anymore.

When I decided I was as physically ready as I’d ever be, I followed Joe through the gate. He was only a few feet ahead of me, and I hurried to catch up, eyes tracking the sway of my backpack as it sat tiny on Joe’s broad back. As soon as I’d ensured the zipper was still firmly shut, I took in my surroundings.

As per usual—in typical Mom fashion—the yard had been invaded by a small army of white foldable picnic tables. There were a myriad of tablecloths thrown across each one. Splashes of Christmas, fall, summer, and spring decorations coated the yard in a rainbow-meshed tableau.

The party was a potluck, judging by the giant bowls full of food lining the table designated to house the plethora of options. Joe slapped me on the back in lieu of a goodbye. Then he headed off toward where my dad was grilling on the porch, bringing my backpack up the stairs with him.

Dad said he liked to be up high. It made him feel like the king of the world as he gazed down on the rest of us peasants wandering around his massive backyard like barbecue-fueled ants.

I loved my dad. Even though he was bad with words, allergic to affection, and made the worst burgers in the history of the universe.

Every one of my siblings was present today—aside from my oldest sister, Marcille, who Mom had told me hadn’t been able to make the trip back home. It felt surreal to stand in my backyard like no time had passed.

Mom found me a second later.

She was dressed as she always was, curvy body drowning in a dress socolorful and garishly patterned she might as well be wearing a neon sign. Her giant blonde hairstyle was even rounder than usual, rising easily five inches above her head in the classic beehive she and the other women in town considered fashionable.

Mom was the local hair stylist. She took great satisfaction in making everyone in town look just like her.

“Mom,” my voice broke.

Suddenly, I was a kid again, transported back in time.

“George.” Mom enveloped me in her arms, holding me tight. She was so soft. So warm. She always managed to smell like the oddest combination of sunscreen, cookies, hairspray, and laundry detergent.

For a moment, I simply breathed her in, squeezing back as my face buried in the crisp round of her over-hairsprayed updo.

“You’re too skinny,” she said the second she pulled away, hands rubbing my arms. “You look tired. Have you not been sleeping?”

I laughed, chest aching. “I’ve been sleeping just fine.”

Another lie.

Mom made a disapproving sound, then pulled me into another hug. Longer this time. “Welcome home, baby,” she said.

And just like that, my fear dissipated.

Gone like it’d never been there at all.

After Mom had paraded me around to all her friends—making me recite what I did for a living and tell them about the many “big-name” companies I’d designed for, she finally left me alone. I missed her, but felt settled in a way I hadn’t for a very long time.

It was good to be home.

I was grateful for the opportunity to feel like something other than a failure.The last year had been horrible, to say the least. Between the breakup, getting over the breakup, and Brendon’s refusal to leave me alone both in and outside of work, I was spread thin—two seconds from snapping at any given moment.

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