Page 5 of Small Town Sizzle

“Are we ready for this?” I ask no one in particular, spinning around to watch Jazlyn sprint up to the door.

George barks then chases after her, barreling through the front door as soon as it’s opened.

“Areyouready for this?” Alex smirks. “Sometimes it’s hard to see Grams get sad about Mom.”

I reach over and squeeze his arm. “I know, buddy. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize, Aunt Maya. It is what it is.”

I force a smile, and he squeezes my hand briefly before my mom stands in the doorway.

“What are you two doing still outside?” she asks with a giant smile. “My goodness, Alex, I think you shot up another inch in a week’s time.”

“His pants would agree with that,” I answer with a giggle. “As would my grocery bill. Between him, Jaz, and George, I think they all have tapeworms.”

“We’re more than happy for Alex to live with us,” Mom replies quickly.

She’ll never admit it, but I’m certain her feelings were hurt that Megan didn’t leave Alex to them to raise.

“It’s nothing I can’t handle, Mom.”

“There’s no way we could keep up with all that he has going on,” Dad interjects as he winks at me.

Alex turns to grab the tray of muffins out of my hand.

“Let me get one of these muffins that you baked,” he chuckles as he sets them on the counter.

Well, baked is generous—reheated from last night’s coffee shop run.

My mom is always complaining that we eat out too much and that I need to cook more for these growing kids, so showing up here with muffins from a store or restaurant would just incite a lecture, and both kids know that well.

Who knew ordering pizza once a week was eating out too much?

My dad is in his typical Sunday uniform—jeans, a T-shirt he’s owned since I was a teenager, and that lopsided grin that’s somehow always contagious. He’s the perfect buffer between Mom and me as he slides to grab a muffin from Alex.

“Maya’s baked goods are always great.”

I say a silent thank you with my eyes as he winks, knowing damn well that I didn’t bake anything.

“Come on in, the food’s almost ready,” Mom says. She fusses around the kitchen as if she’s cooking for the pope himself.

The smell of cinnamon and vanilla wraps around us. The chatter, the clinking of plates, the hum of the old kitchen radio—it’s all so normal, so perfectly ordinary, that it’s easy to forget about the invisible weight we all carry.

Mom is at the stove, flipping another batch of French toast with precision, her back straight, and her hair pulled into the same no-nonsense bun she always wears when cooking.

“Hi, sweetheart!” she says, wiping her hands on her apron as Jazlyn goes to her for a hug.

“Hi, Mom,” I say, leaning in for my own hug. She smells like nutmeg and lavender, and her arms are still the safest place in the world, even though we bicker nonstop most days.

We settle around the table, Dad pouring orange juice while Jazlyn chatters about her latest school project. She’s building avolcano for science class, and apparently, Alex promised to help her make it “explode extra big.”

“I’m gonna get a call from her teacher, you know,” I tell him, arching an eyebrow.

“It’s for science,” he says, deadpan. “Totally worth it.”

Mom laughs, setting a platter of bacon down in the center of the table. “Just make sure you don’t blow up the house.”

The banter flows easily, everyone chiming in with jokes and stories. I’m laughing so hard at Dad’s story about his disastrous attempt at yoga that I nearly choke on my coffee. Jazlyn is giggling uncontrollably, her hands slapping the table as Alex tries to demonstrate the pose that made Dad fall over.

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