Page 23 of The Weight Of Falling
“Wonderful. We’re already planning another trip next year.”
My parents love to travel and are taking full advantage of their retirement years to explore different places and cultures.
“You should come with us next time,” he says gently.
“Maybe.”
His eyes soften and he kisses the top of my head. I’ve been sayingmaybefor years. We both know how much of a homebody I am.
“Hey, where’s my hug from my girl?”
Smiling, I wander over to my mother and wrap my arms around her. Her hair is the same light color as mine but now streaked with gray. I tend to favor my mom the most in looks, inheriting my blonde hair and blue eyes from her.
“Smells good, Mom.”
I give her another squeeze, before I loosen my hold. We’re a family of huggers.
Mom turns to me with a smile, eyes flicking to my paint-smudged fingers. “Busy creating magic again?”
“I was taught by the best,” I reply, and her smile deepens. I peer into the pot. “What’s for dinner?”
“Pesto pasta salad.”
“Need help?” I ask.
“That would be great. Dad’s on onion duty.”
“Never been afraid to cry,” he declares.
I find a jar of olives and a red pepper in the fridge and start chopping. As we prepare dinner together, we catch up on the week. I tell them about Kate’s wedding and her surprise maneuver to get Joel and me on the dance floor. My parents find it hilarious. They want every last detail. So I tell them, but I don’t mention the kiss in the storeroom. I haven’t told anyone about that. And I’m not entirely sure why.
They open a bottle of wine to celebrate Kate’s ingenuity. I stick to juice because I’m driving. And because I don’t find her matchmaking efforts as much of a cause for celebration as they evidently do.
“What’s the movie Joel’s taking you to?” Mom asks as she stirs the pesto into the shell pasta.
“Shadowlands.”
Dad frowns. “Is that the one where Anthony Hopkins plays C. S. Lewis?”
“That’s the one,” I confirm as Ember, the smallest of their four rescue cats, winds herself around my legs. I reach down to stroke her soft fur. “Have you watched it?”
Mom and Dad exchange a glance I can’t read.
“Ages ago,” Mom replies, waving a dismissive hand. “Anyway, tell me about the greeting card designs you’re working on.”
I love talking about my work, especially to my mom. I fill them in on my latest design while I wipe the counter down. When the salad and garlic bread are ready, we make our way to the back deck. There’s still a slight chill in the air, and my dad hands me a throw blanket. I drape it over my legs and we settle in on the deck to eat our dinner, the view of the woods familiar and comforting, like stepping into a favorite memory. Our conversation drifts from their long-time neighbors who are thinking of moving, to the bathroom renovations they’re in the middle of, to all the various social events taking place in Brown Oaks.
After I finish eating, my mom makes hot chocolate and I curl up under the blanket with Rue, a timid little dachshund with big, worried eyes, to watch the sun sink lower into the sky. The wind sighs through the pine trees, and the questions that have been dogging me the whole week fall silent at last.
8
On Saturday, Joel pulls into my driveway promptly at six. Not wanting to appear too eager, I wait for his knock before I open the door, my stomach fluttering with nerves. He looks good. His deep blue shirt stretches across his broad shoulders in a way that confirms what Aaron said about Joel working out. And his slate-gray pants look like they’re molded to his legs.
“Hi,” I say a little breathlessly.
“Hi.”
His eyes flick over me. I’m sure I glimpse admiration in his expression, but when he stays quiet, I have to fight the flash of disappointment.
