Page 38 of The Gathered Fragments of Us
Going to the kitchen, I got out the dinner from the microwave—Stouffers fettuccini alfredo—and wolfed it down. After tossing the fork in the dishwasher and throwing the container in the recycling, I poured some water and headed back to my room. I had homework that I could work on anyways, so maybe that will distract me until it's time to go to bed.
I really hope Mom still isn't mad at me when she wakes up. And that Felicity and Dad aren't mad that I didn't send the video.
I just wish someone would tell me the right thing to do. So I could stop messing everything up.
Chapter 18: Coming Home
~Felicity~
The Uber pulled away, leaving me standing in my own driveway with my suitcase and a heart that felt too big for my chest. The house looked the same—white colonial, black shutters, the garden I’d planted three springs ago—but something felt different. I think it was me.
I could see warm light spilling from the front windows. Caden’s car was in the garage, but no sign of Jessica’s SUV. Good. I wasn’t ready for that particular brand of drama tonight.
My key turned easily in the lock, and I stepped inside to the smell of something familiar. Something that made my throat tighten with memory.
“Felicity?” Caden’s voice came from the kitchen, cautious and hopeful.
“It’s me.”
Dropping my suitcase by the door, I followed the scent toward the back of the house. He was standing by the stove, wooden spoon in hand, looking like he’d been caught doing something he'd get in trouble for.
“You’re cooking,” I said, surprised by how my voice sounded—smaller than I intended.
“Yeah—I…I thought our taco dish could be a good way to—" he paused, almost searching for the words. "I don't know. I guess—it seemed like a good welcome home. Now it feels like…” Hetrailed off, gesturing helplessly at the pan. “Um. Well I don't know—so, I thought maybe you’d be hungry.” He was nervous.
I stared at him. At the clean kitchen, the fresh flowers on the counter, the two forks laid out on a single plate. Just like we used to do—when we were happy.
The flowers weren’t white roses. They were vibrant—orange mixed with purple. I wasn't sure what the flowers were, but they were beautiful. I could see there was eucalyptus and some baby's breath mixed in. It was a splattering of colors. It felt like someone had paid attention instead of just checking off a box.
“Where’s Macy?”
His face darkened. “Jessica picked her up early. She… there was a situation.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak yet. The disappointment hit harder than I expected. That felt like a surprise. I’d been looking forward to seeing her, wanted to make sure she didn't think this whole thing was her fault. Because it wasn't.
“She wanted to be here,” Caden continued quickly. “She was really upset about leaving. She wanted to apologize to you. About the purse.”
“She doesn’t need to apologize for anything.” The words came out sharper than I meant them to. “She’s eleven, Caden. This was never about her.”
“I know.” He set down the spoon and turned to face me fully. “I know that. I know I screwed everything up. I know I made it worse when you tried to tell me too."
We stood there in the kitchen where this all started, the same kitchen where I’d watched my husband give away the one thingI’d asked for, where I’d finally found my voice and used it to tell him how invisible I felt.
I touched the flowers gently. “These are beautiful.”
“Macy picked them out. For you. She spent twenty minutes at the flower shop making sure they were perfect.” His voice was soft. “She said the white roses you usually get are pretty, but these ones were happy. Like you.”
My throat closed up. An eleven-year-old had put more thought into flowers for me than my husband had in years. That stung.
“I got your text,” I said finally. “About my birthday.”
He nodded. “I didn’t know if I should… you said not to call or text, but I couldn’t let the day pass without…”
“Thank you.” I surprised myself by meaning it.
“How was Miami?”
“Good.” I touched the strap of my purse, thinking of the spa, beach, shopping, the women who’d adopted me for a night. The letter and the postcard I’d written to myself. “Really good, actually. No—that's wrong. It was amazing.”
