Page 9 of Checking Mr. Wrong
A minute later, the engine hums and he’s gone, leaving me alone with a stack of bags, a thousand memories, and the kind of silence you can only get in small towns and big moments.
I turn, looking up and down the street I grew up on. It’s all so familiar yet strange, like this chipped tooth or like someone rearranged the furniture of my memories. Across the street, Mayor Thompkins’ house looks exactly the same—bright blue shutters, a flag waving lazily in the afternoon breeze. On the porch, his daughter Ashlyn is pacing with her phone pressed to her ear. She looks up, does a quick double take when we make eye contact, then waves.
“Hey, Ashlyn!” I call, smiling as she waves back, but she’s already ducking inside, leaving the screen door to bang softly against the frame.
Next door to her place is Clara Johnson’s house. My chest warms at the sight of it, a flood of memories washing over me. Clara and I spent so many summers in her backyard, making friendship bracelets, flipping through teen magazines, and plotting our lives like we had any idea how they’d turn out.
“Is that my Mabel?”
The sound of my name pulls my attention to the porch of my house. Murray’s there, leaning on the railing, his weathered face lighting up when our eyes meet.
“Hey, kiddo!” he calls, his voice as warm and steady as it always was.
“Murray!” I yell back, grinning as I jog toward him. I take the steps two at a time and throw my arms around him, the scent of his aftershave and sawdust making me feel instantly at home. If there was a prize for Stepdad of the Year, he’d win itevery single time.
“You’ve been missed,” he says, patting my back.
“I missed you, too,” I say, holding on a little longer. Because for all the chaos and noise in my life, this is the first thing that’s felt steady in a long time. “I swear, and do not tell my mother this, but you are the best part about coming back to this town.”
“I promise not to tell her,” he says, crossing his heart and laughing. “She’s been wound up pretty tight lately.”
“Sounds like an ominous warning?”
“It’s something.” He nods. “I keep telling her she needs to loosen up, but I only get a grunt for a response.”
“At least it’s a noise,” I say with a giggle as Murray grabs my bags and heads inside.
I follow Murray up the steps, the creak of the old wooden boards beneath our feet as familiar as my own heartbeat. He pushes the door open, and the smell of home hits me—cinnamon,lemon cleaner, and something faintly floral that I can’t place but have always associated with my mom.
The entryway looks the same, down to the small table with a bowl for keys that I swear hasn’t moved an inch in twenty years. I pause, letting my eyes drift over the family photos lining the walls. There’s one of me and my mom at the state fair, grinning with sticky cotton candy hands, and another of her and Murray on the day of their wedding, looking ridiculously happy. My throat tightens.
Murray sets my bags down by the stairs and gives my shoulder a quick squeeze. “She’s in the kitchen. No arguing, okay?”
“Why does everyone think I only want to argue? Am I coming off as defensive already?” I ask, but he’s already heading toward the garage, chuckling and waving me off.
I take a deep breath before entering the kitchen. Since the “incident” late last year, I’d found all the ways to avoid my mother. Until now.
She’s standing by the counter, her back to me as she stirs something on the stove. She’s wearing her best pressed slacks and a neat, bright orange blouse, and her hair is pinned back in the same no-nonsense bun she’s worn my whole life. She doesn’t turn around when she hears me, just says, “I thought I heard you come in.”
“Hi, Mom,” I say, leaning against the doorway.
She glances over her shoulder, her expression softening slightly. “You look tired.”
“Thanks?”
Her lips twitch, like she wants to smile but won’t let herself. Instead, she reaches for a mug and pours steaming water over a tea bag. “Here,” she says, setting it on the counter. “Peppermint. Thought it might help you settle in.”
I slowly inch my way to the mug, the warmth seeping into my hands. “Thanks.”
She nods, folding her arms across her chest. There’s a beat ofsilence, not uncomfortable exactly, but not exactly filled with party vibes either.
“Still like sugar in it?” she asks finally.
“Yeah,” I say. “Two, please.”
She grabs the jar from the counter and spoons the sugar in, stirring briskly before handing the mug back to me. “Your room’s the same,” she says, almost casually. “Haven’t changed a thing.”
“Even the weird wallpaper?”
