Page 3 of The Love Playbook

“At a loss for words?” Chris grins. “I tend to have that effect on women.”

I scoff. “More like they’re hoping that if they stay mute, you’ll get the hint andleave.”

I glance away from his piercing blue eyes and focus back on Brynn as I get to my feet. “Since no one wants to save me from the flames of hell, I guess I’d better go.”

“Hey, maybe the flavor of the month’s son will be hot?” she says, her tone hopeful. “It might make tonight bearable at least.”

“I mean, you’re not wrong, but with my luck, he’ll resemble this Neanderthal.” I hook a thumb toward Chris.

“Flavor of the month?” he asks, glancing between us. “What did I miss? Are you going on a blind date?”

A bitter laugh tumbles from my lips. “If only.”

A swirl of color passes by my window as I drive through the town of Lockport where I grew up. The leaves have already started to fall, blanketing the grass in a kaleidoscope of yellow, orange, and red. I crack open my window, inhaling the earthy scent of them as I pass when I near Pappy’s Pumpkins. Their roadside stand sits mostly empty; only a few large pumpkins remain. Unsurprisingly, the field on my right is mostly picked over.

I soak it in as a memory surfaces. Me standing in a field of pumpkins while my parents argue. My mother bursting into a fit of tears and dropping the large orange squash I had painstakingly chosen on the ground, smashing it to bits while everyone around us gawked. Eventually, I had no choice but to settle for a different pumpkin with the promise of an apple cider slushy from Dad to appease me.

We never did carve them that year.

My thoughts churn out another memory as I pass the school on my right. Arguments on the opening day of my first school play. Waiting on the soccer field for hours after practice because my mother forgot to pick me up. No-shows at choir concerts and teacher conferences post-divorce because Mom couldn’t get out of bed.

I grunt and focus back on the road as I lift the paper cup to my lips and take a sip of my chai tea, trying to ease the nauseabubbling in my gut, but it’s no use. Coming back to Lockport always brings with it a clutch of painful memories. I know there was a time when life was grand and my parents got along, but I can barely remember it. Too much has happened since, and time can’t heal all wounds, at least not when the perpetrators keep picking at them.

I take a right at the post office, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white as I contemplate turning around and spending my birthday alone at the dorms. Exhaling, I come to a stop at the red light by the fire station and flick my blinker on at the same time my phone rings.

A glance at the screen reveals it’s my mother.

My stomach sinks. She doesn’t call often, and she knows I’m visiting Dad first, which means she can only want one thing . . .

Focusing back on the road, I wait for the light to turn green, then turn, ignoring the call as it goes to voicemail, only for it to ring again, her name flashing insistently.

With a sigh, I hit the answer button, waiting a moment as my stereo connects with my phone before I answer. “Yes, Mother?”

“When are you getting here?”

I bite back the smart retort that wants to come out and instead say, “Mom, we’ve already discussed this. You know I’m going to his house today for dinner. I’ll be over later tonight, so we can spend my actual birthday together tomorrow.”

“I can’t believe it’s your first visit home in nearly six months, and you’re going to seehimfirst?”

While it’s true I haven’t been home since before the summer semester started, my mother’s been doing well. When I left for Ann Arbor U a little over a year ago, I did so with the intention of getting away. I needed an escape. At home, I was a rat in a maze, constantly having to navigate my mother’s moods and depression, only to perform damage control when she went into one of her spirals.

At school, I forget such a problem existed, for a while at least. I can simply be Charlotte Baker without the stigma of a sick mother.

But ever since my father started dating this new woman over the summer, I can sense her demons creeping back in. Her moods have changed. Even the tone of her calls feels more like the mother I grew up with and less like the one who pulled herself together by the metaphorical bootstraps when I left home.

Still, I bite my tongue, because there’s no right answer here. If I went to her place now and Dad’s tomorrow, I’d be accused of playing favorites since I’d be spending my actual birthday with him. It wouldn’t matter if I spent five minutes at his place and the rest of the weekend at hers; it wouldn’t be enough. Never mind the fact that Dad has made an effort to see me while I’m at school, on my own terms, while everyone and everything has to cater to her. Dad has his faults, but at least he tries.

“Sorry, but I wanted to spend my birthday with you. I figured it would work out better this way,” I say, hoping to appease her.

Mom huffs. “I heard his new girlfriend will be there.”

And there it is.

I bite back a groan and contemplate driving into a tree. A visit to the emergency room seems a nicer way to spend my twentieth.

“Yep,” I say, my tone sharp.

“Is it true? Are you going to meet her while you’re home?”

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