Page 12 of Honeyed

Sure, there had been no rent or mortgage payments—I was the only kid still living at home—and Mom cooked for me every day. But I needed independence. I needed to grow up and start living my own life despite still being in a rut of not dating because I was in love with my best friend. My parents deserved their empty nest and golden years, even though they pleaded with me to stay since I was their princess. In our traditional Italian family, they wanted me to live home until my prince came and whisked me away into marriage.

Marriage, there it is again. An image of Warren physically carrying me over the threshold of my parent’s home as they bid him farewell like I came with some dowry he was receiving makes me snort with laughter as I brake at a stop sign. I can’t imagine what my parents will say if I just up and marry the man who has been like a second son to them since before he went through puberty.

It’s just one of the many lumps I can’t swallow past when thinking about accepting his offer. My family, our history, the town’s opinions, and the public pressure. It’s no secret that Warren and I are thick as thieves, and all the outside gossip and speculation will only bring unwanted anxiety to a marriage that isn’t real, to begin with. On top of everything else, I don’t want that.

My quaint little neighborhood with its craftsman and Cape Cod style homes gives way to Newton Street, where I turn to avoid the main drag and drive down by the canal instead. Sunlight streams through the trees budded with barely growing sprouts, and late morning runners and families with kids walk the red dirt path as my car maneuvers past.

Soon, the busier sections of Hope Crest flash in my rearview, and I’m taking the drive I’ve driven a million times. Okay, maybe not that many, but it feels like it.

My parent’s house, my childhood home, comes into view, and every stressed-out cell inside me calms. If you look up the definition of home in the dictionary, a picture of this place would probably be there.

The big white house where I grew up, with its front porch full of rocking chairs and second-floor balcony, looks like the perfect oasis. Its red brick front walk and pool in the backyard are as known to me as my own two feet. This is the place where every party took place, where I snuck out of my bedroom window to sit on the gray shingled roof. My parent’s home is the one where my brothers and I had potato sack races down the sloping green front lawn and would fight over who got the remote in the vaulted-ceilinged living room. Through every tear, happy moment, self-discovery, and tough time, this place has been a refuge.

It also reminds me, every square inch of it, of Warren Teal. There is nowhere on this property that I haven’t made a memory with him.

The house smells like vanilla as I open the front door with the key that’s been on my ring since I was ten. “Ma, it’s me.”

“In here!” I hear from the kitchen, which is where you can usually find my mother.

My father might be the cook of my family, but when it comes to our house and not the restaurant, this is Mom’s domain. Images of her whipping up our favorite ricotta pancakes or Italian wedding soup, our favorite sick meal of choice, bring me comfort as I walk through the rooms.

The house has barely changed since I grew up or moved out; the same beige couches, all sunken in and overstuffed, sit in the living room waiting for movie night. Going up the stairs are years of school pictures of my siblings and me, from smiling gap teeth to the awful mullet Evan grew during his senior year of school. My father still has rows of DVDs on the shelves next to the TV, even though we bought him every streaming service under the sun for various holidays. My mother’s house slippers sit neatly on the stairs, and as I walk through the swinging door into the kitchen, I’m met with the drapes covered in grape vines that I’ve been begging Mom to take down for years.

“Hi, princess.” Mom greets me with a kiss on the cheek as her hands knead dough and flour.

“You already got started, huh?” Asking me to assist was a formality anyway.

Everyone knows I’m the black sheep of cooking in this family. The one Ashton gene I did not inherit is knowing my way around a kitchen. Give me a microwave and packaged food any day of the week.

“Eh, they need about twelve dozen, so I have my work out for me.” Mom smiles and shrugs like she doesn’t volunteer every year.

She doesn’t even have children in the school system anymore, yet she will keep contributing to the bake sale until she drops. It’s just what our family does for the community.

“She’s got me on spoon duty,” Cass says from where she stands at the counter.

Her small baby bump makes it impossible to stand flush against it as she places small cookie balls on a baking sheet.

“How are you feeling?” I ask her, using my body language to ask if I can feel her belly.

She nods, wanting me to try to get a kick from my little niece or nephew in there. “Like I’m growing a human inside me. How weird is that, by the way? All the modern medicine we have, all the biological advancements, and we’re still having babies the same way they did in caves way back when.”

“It is kind of strange. Like, couldn’t they incubate you for a week and pop, out comes a healthy baby, no problem.” I giggle, thinking about Cass sitting under a light like a chicken’s egg.

Mom pffts us. “You younger generations and your need for everything all at once, right this minute. It takes how long it takes. Childbirth is beautiful. Why do you think I did it four times?”

“No one needs to think about you squeezing us out of your hoo-ha, thanks very much, Mom.” I make a barfing noise just to agitate her.

“Alana Christine.” She rolls her eyes and uses my middle name.

Ignoring her, I focus on trying to get a roundhouse out of the baby. “Come on, little creature. Give your auntie a kick!”

“Patrick thinks it’s a boy, but I’m not so convinced.” Cass looks at her belly lovingly. “We have the ultrasound where we can find out next week.”

“Are you going to let us in on that revelation?” I wiggle my eyebrows.

She nods. “I’m not sure. We aren’t even sure we want to know ourselves yet.”

Mom sighs dreamily. “I’ve already begun scouring my boxes in the attic for heirloom pieces.”

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