17. Regrets
17
Regrets
Asher
My body grows more rigid with every step toward my mother’s house, and I’m really starting to reconsider.
“It’ll be fine,” Daisy murmurs. “It’s just dinner. It doesn’t mean you have to forgive them, remember?”
I want to answer, but nothing comes out.
“Do you want me to tell you about the typical Chicago bungalow? Because your mom’s house is a great example.”
I look at her, then exhale a long breath. She’s the best distraction there is. And she’s right. It’ll be fine, because she’s here with me. “Yes, please . And don’t leave out any of the nerdy details.”
She flashes a bright smile and begins her explanation, her voice soothing me with every word. When I’m calm enough, we walk up to the door and ring the doorbell.
“Ash,” Evan says, opening the door. “Good to see you. Daisy, thank you for coming.”
“Of course,” Daisy replies with a smile.
He opens the door further. “Come in.”
We walk into the entryway, and everything feels foreign. The notes of patchouli in the air are unexpected, the space is unfamiliar, and I’m surprised by the various plants scattered everywhere. We didn’t have so much as a bouquet of flowers in our childhood home.
“You’re here,” Mom rasps as she hobbles on her crutches. “I’m so happy you came.”
I feel my back tensing, but Daisy’s hand roaming over it spreads a comforting warmth through my body, calming me.
Mom shakes Daisy’s hand weakly before bringing her eyes to me. I shove both my hands in my pockets, and she doesn’t go for that awkward hug again.
“Good evening!” A plump bearded man says, bouncing down the stairs. “I’m Peter, Cheryl’s husband. Nice to meet you.”
Daisy introduces herself, but I ’m too stunned to react. Mom’s married?
“And you’re Asher, of course,” he says, extending his large hand. “It’s so good to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”
I frown. “You have?”
“Um, yeah,” he says, dropping his hand when I don’t reach for it. “So, who’s hungry? I made my famous roast. You can take a seat in the frunchroom. I'll go grab some drinks and snacks.”
My eyebrows furrow. What the heck is a frunchroom?
“It’s the living room,” Daisy mumbles, probably seeing the confusion on my face. Or maybe because she just loves sharing facts. “Usually, the front room of the house.” She winks as we follow them to the next room.
We step into a cozy space with a large rug and a few colorful pillows tossed on the couch and armchair. Coasters are already set on the dark wood coffee table, and once again, there are plants everywhere. Hung in the corner of the room, resting on the fireplace mantelpiece, and situated in front of the bay window. There’s a large Chicago Police Department blazon on top of the fireplace and a beautiful turquoise butterfly in a large frame above the couch.
Daisy and I take a seat on the co uch while Mom sits in the armchair on Daisy’s left and Evan pulls up a beanbag chair. We all stare at each other in silence, and I’m two steps away from fleeing.
“You have a lovely home,” Daisy says, tugging on her sleeve. “I just adore these classic Chicago bungalows.”
“Thank you, dear,” Mom says with a smile.
Peter saunters into the room, his face flushed. He places a tray of finger foods in front of us. “What can I get you to drink? We have champagne, wine, whiskey, martinis, beer, or if you prefer no alcohol, I have pop and water, of course.”
“A pop is a soda,” Daisy whispers in my ear, sending chills down my spine. But her explanation makes me wrinkle my forehead. Does this city come with its own dictionary or something?
We all give Peter our drink orders and wait in silence until he brings them out, then sits down on a chair next to Evan.
If there is a Chicago dictionary, I think we’ll snap a picture of this moment and paste it next to the word “awkward” or “uncomfortable.”
“So,” Daisy begins, looking around. “Do you know when this house was built? I’m guessing 1925.”
Mom scrunches her face, clearly n ot expecting the question. “I’m afraid I don’t know, but early twenties seems about right.”
“Yes.” Daisy nods. “That’s when most classic bungalows were constructed. They were built for middle-class families seeking a more suburban lifestyle, complete with a yard. Did you know that there are more than 80,000 bungalows in Chicago? They make up a third of the city’s single-family housing stock,” she adds, then breathes a nervous chuckle. “Sorry, I’m probably boring you. I’m an architect too, and a total fact nerd.” She’s now completely flushed, and her nickname has never suited her so well.
“That’s fascinating,” I say, offering her a smile. “Thanks for sharing that.”
“Yeah,” Evan says. “Pretty cool. So, where do you work?”
The atmosphere relaxes as Daisy talks about her job and how she ended up in Chicago in the first place. I’m so grateful for her and her ability to steal the room.
Before I know it, the time comes to move into the dining room to eat. The conversation is flowing now—not that I’m participating much. I’m still just trying to adjust to being here. Mom’s eyes seem constantly fixed on me, so I focus on Daisy, who’s seated next to me.
We dig in, and I have to say, Peter was right. His roast is delicious. Even with my knotted stomach, I’m able to enjoy the meal. We also learn that he’s responsible for all the plants in the house. He retired from his job as a police officer and started gardening as a hobby.
“So, you’re considering taking a job here?” he asks, forking a piece of meat.
“Yes,” I say. “I’m not sure yet. It’s still in the early stages. I have other offers in New York as well.”
Peter glances at Daisy, frowning. “But you live here in Chicago?”
She nods. “I do. At the firm Asher is considering.”
“So, you two currently don’t live in the same city?”
“No,” I say, my tone sharp. What doesn’t he understand? “I live in New York. She lives in Chicago.”
“They’re not a couple, Peter,” Evan cuts in, chuckling. “That’s what you thought, wasn’t it?”
Peter’s face reddens until it could compete with Daisy's cheeks. “Oh. I’m sorry. My mistake. You didn’t say, so I, uh, just assumed.”
Mom and Evan laugh while Daisy chuckles nervously. “Sorry for the confusion,” she says. “I guess I should have introduced myself properly. Asher and I are just”—she pauses, glancing at me—“friends.”
“We are,” I say with a nod. I guess it’s true. We’ve confided in each other, we spent a lot of time together these past few days, we get along well, we— Crap. No. I can’t be friends with Daisy. I don’t want to be friends with Daisy. Not because I don’t like her, but because I could never settle for just friendship. Nor would I even deserve it.
I slap both hands on the table. “Excuse me. Where is the bathroom?”
Daisy wears a puzzled look, glancing at me while Evan tells me which way to go.
I zoom out of the dining room, unbuttoning the top few buttons of my shirt. I need to concentrate on breaking into that software, not on my relationship with Daisy. Or my family. This is sidetracking me. When we were at the office earlier today, I couldn’t bring myself to keep trying passwords, and that’s unacceptable. If I don’t focus, I’m going to lose my job and everything I worked for. I slow my steps, my thoughts racing. Wait. Do I even want my job anymore? A dream job isn’t supposed to make you sick—or commit federal crimes. But what else is there? It’s all I’ve ever known. All I’ve worked for my entire life.
I bump against a wooden cabinet, causing the various framed photographs to topple. I muffle a curse under my breath before putting them back in place. As I stand the first one back up, my breath catches in my throat. It’s me. I must be four or five, standing in front of our old house in New York. I’m on my bike with training wheels, my brother next to me, teaching me. I straighten another frame, and this time, it’s me and my mom at the park. The next one is my brother blowing out his sixteenth birthday candles, and in another, Evan is graduating from the fire academy. The last frame doesn’t contain a picture. It’s a printout of an article with my name on it. “Architecture University of Manhattan Valedictorian Asher Forbes gives an inspiring speech to his class.”
My jaw drops, and about ten different emotions ricochet through me. All this time, she’s been following my life? When they left, I did everything I could to push both of them out of my mind. I never replied to their letters or emails, never returned their calls. So I didn’t expect to be part of their lives. The sound of my mom’s crutches resonates on the wood floor, but I don’t have the energy to make an escape.
“Asher,” she whispers.
“What’s this?” I ask, the words strangled in my throat.
She frowns. “What do you mean? Those are just pictures.”
“Of me. And the article.” I shake my head in disbelief.
Her expression softens. “Asher, even if you don’t want me in your life, you’ll always be a part of mine. You’re my son.”
I want to scoff, but no sound comes out. “Yet, you left.” I wish I hadn’t just said that. That I stopped thinking like a seven-year-old, but the switch isn’t that easy.
She sways on her legs. “And I’ll regret it for the rest of my life,” she sighs. “I was in pain, and I couldn’t bear to see Michelle and your dad together. She was my friend. He was my husband, and they betrayed me. I didn’t have the strength to bump into them at the store or pick you up from their house. I know it was wrong. I see it now. I should have been a better mother. I should have been there for you.”
“You just packed up and left. I begged you to stay.” Suddenly, I’m a kid again, my world crumbling around me on our front porch. Tears well in my eyes, and there’s nothing I can do to stop them from spilling out.
“Asher.” She hobbles forward and caresses my cheek. “My sweet boy. I’m so sorry. I was in a terrible place, but I love you so much. Please, forgive me.”
I swallow hard. “I’m not sure I can.” Yes, I know I should. She made the only choice she could have, I see that now, but there’s something keeping me from taking that last step.
A tear streams down her cheek, an d a stab pierces my heart. The last thing I want is to make my mom cry, but I need time to process this. It’s all too much.