Reece #2
And as I start loading groceries into my trunk, my phone lights up with FaceTime.
From my parents.
I smile automatically, because my parents are my favorite kind of chaos.
I answer.
“Hi!—”
The screen flips.
And instead of my mother’s face, I see my front stoop.
My front stoop.
As in… my house.
As in… right now.
And then my mother leans into the frame, grinning like she just pulled off a heist.
“Surprise!” She sings.
My dad appears beside her, smiling like he’s proud of himself for existing.
I freeze with a bag of oranges in my hand.
My mouth falls open.
My heart does a joyful leap—
Then immediately plummets into dread.
They’re here.
At my house.
Now.
My brain tries to reboot.
“Are you—” I blink hard. “Are you on my porch?”
My mom laughs. “Yes!”
My dad lifts his hand in a small wave. “Hey, kiddo.”
I press my free hand to my forehead. “How—when—what—”
My mom beams. “We wanted to surprise you!”
I stare at them. “You flew up in this weather?”
My dad shrugs. “We lived in it for over fifty years.”
My mom nods. “And we’re determined.”
That is… accurate.
My mom keeps talking like this is perfectly reasonable behavior. “We planned a surprise. A real surprise. Coordinated. Like a mission.”
I close my eyes. “Let me guess. With Gage’s parents.”
My dad chuckles, fully entertained by my suffering. “They’re here too.”
I flatten my voice. “Wow. Incredible. A dream come true.”
My mom tilts the phone like she’s about to unveil the season finale twist.
“And guess what,” she says.
A sense of dread slithers down my spine. “I already hate it.”
“We’re having dinner tonight.”
“Dinner,” I repeat, because apparently my brain has chosen denial as its final defense mechanism.
“At Gage’s,” she says brightly, like she’s announcing sandwiches and not the emotional ambush of the century. “After he gets home from work.”
I stare at the screen.
Dinner at Gage’s.
Tonight.
With my parents.
With his parents.
After we kissed.
After I avoided him today like a coward with a calendar.
My mom’s face softens slightly, like she’s noticing my silence. “Honey? Are you okay?”
I paste on a smile so fast it hurts. “Yes! I’m great!”
My dad’s eyebrows lift, like he knows better but chooses kindness. “Where are you?”
“Grocery store,” I say, voice too bright.
My mom laughs. “Of course you are. That’s my girl.”
I swallow.
“Okay,” I manage. “I’m on my way home.”
“Good,” my mom says. “We’re inside. Don’t panic.”
My dad adds, deadpan, “We already found the thermostat.”
I groan. “Dad.”
He smiles. “Too late.”
My mom beams again. “See you soon!”
She ends the call before I can argue.
I stand in the grocery store parking lot holding oranges like they are my only link to reality.
Then I whisper to the trunk, “This is not happening.”
The trunk does not respond.
I finish loading the groceries.
I get in the car.
I sit there for a long second.
Then I start driving home with a stomach full of dread and a trunk full of salad.
When I pull into my driveway, my parents’ rental car is already there.
Luggage sits near my front steps like proof they got sidetracked when entering my house.
My porch light is on.
My door is open.
Because my parents are here and they have never met a boundary they respected.
I carry groceries inside and immediately get swallowed by love.
My mom hugs me like she’s trying to fuse us back together. “There she is!”
My dad takes the grocery bag from my arm like I’m still twelve. “Let me.”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
My mother pulls back and studies my face. “You look tired.”
“I’m not,” I lie.
My dad looks around my kitchen. “You still have that drafty window?”
My stomach twists.
Not because of the window.
Because the word drafty makes me think of Gage. Plastic. Tape. His calm voice offering help like it’s nothing.
“Yes,” I say. “It’s… still dramatic.”
My mom nods like the window has offended her personally. “We’re replacing that.”
“Mom—”
“And have you considered a generator?” my dad asks, as if he’s casually suggesting I buy a second house.
My mother waves a hand. “Gage has one. He’s always been prepared.”
My chest tightens.
Of course she says Gage like that.
Like it’s normal.
Like we didn’t kiss.
Like my entire nervous system isn’t staging a revolt.
My dad is already opening the fridge. “You have food, at least.”
“I do now,” I say. “I’m an adult.”
My mom ignores me. “Did you eat enough during the storm?”
“Yes,” I say quickly.
My dad squints at the pantry. “You reorganized?”
I freeze.
I did reorganize.
And now my dad is looking at my spices like he’s judging my character.
“I… did some stress organizing,” I admit.
My mom laughs. “Oh honey.”
Then she touches my cheek, gentle. “We missed you.”
My throat tightens.
“I missed you too,” I say quietly, and I mean it.
For a moment, the dread eases.
Then my mom claps her hands. “Okay! We have two hours before we go to Susan’s and Robert’s cheerful invasion dinner.”
My heart drops right back into my stomach.
Right.
Dinner.
Gage.
His parents.
My parents.
All of us.
In one room.
Like old times.
Except old times didn’t include kissing him and then avoiding him.
My mom chatters as she moves around my kitchen like she never left. “Susan said she’s making dessert. Of course she is. She always needs a project.”
My dad smiles. “Robert said he’s bringing good coffee.”
My mom turns to me with bright eyes. “Isn’t this fun? All of us together again!”
I nod like I’m not about to pass out. “So fun.”
My mom narrows her eyes slightly. “You’re acting weird.”
“I’m not,” I say too fast.
My dad glances up from inspecting my window like it’s a suspect. “You’re acting weird.”
I stare at them. “Am I acting weird?”
My mom puts her hands on my shoulders. “Honey, what’s going on?”
My mouth opens.
Closes.
Because I can’t say: I kissed Gage and now I’m terrified of dinner.
So I say the truth that is also a lie.
“I’m just tired,” I whisper.
My mom softens. “Okay. Well, we’ll keep it light.”
My dad nods. “We’ll talk about weather and casseroles.”
I laugh once—too sharp, too nervous. “Perfect.”
Because yes.
Talk about weather.
Talk about casseroles.
Talk about anything that isn’t the fact that my heart is about to be in the same room as his.
Upstairs, I walk into my bedroom and stare into my closet like it’s a hostile witness.
What do you wear to dinner at the house of the man you kissed?
Not a date.
Not a meeting.
Not a formal event.
Just… dinner.
With parents.
And history.
And the kind of emotional landmines that come with people who have known you since you were five.
My brain starts making an absurd plan, because that is my coping mechanism.
Okay. Plan.
· Sit at the far end of the table.
· Only discuss weather, generators, and neutral topics like grocery inflation.
· If Gage looks at me too long, pretend to choke on water.
· Compliment Susan’s dessert immediately to redirect attention.
· If anyone mentions “porch steps,” fake a sudden urgent need to use the bathroom.
I nod once like this is reasonable.
It is not.
Time is rolling by very quickly since I’ve been stuck in my personal descent.
Downstairs, my mother calls, “Reece, are you okay? We’re leaving in twenty minutes!”
Twenty minutes.
I stare at my closet.
My chest tightens, not because of the outfit.
Because of the truth that lands like a quiet, terrifying weight:
If I can’t even sit through dinner without panicking… how do I keep working for him?
How do I keep living next door?
How do I keep pretending this is manageable?
A thought forms—small, sharp, practical.
Distance.
Not because I don’t want him.
Because I might want him too much.
And wanting him means risk.
And risk means losing.
My throat burns.
I swallow hard, forcing myself to breathe.
My mother calls again, louder like I’m a toddler. “Reece! Shoes! Coat! We’re going!”
I look at my closet and whisper, like I’m talking to myself and the universe at the same time:
“Okay. Showtime.”
My hands move on autopilot, grabbing something simple, something safe, something that won’t scream I’m spiraling.
And as I step away from the closet, my voice drops to a nervous murmur:
“Try not to ruin your entire life.”