10. And We Love
Chapter 10
And We Love
Lo
I hear my door creak open. Soft steps. Just one set of them. It’s Mom.
She doesn’t knock. She never does when she’s bringing something—a habit left over from when we were little and sick, or heartbroken, or both. I hear the soft clink of a mug on my nightstand. I fight the urge to open my eyes. Because if I do, she’ll read me like a map. Like she always does. And I’m not ready for her to find the landmarks that scream he slept here.
She doesn’t say anything for a second, then, quietly, “You don’t have to fake sleep, honey.”
My jaw clenches. I open one eye. Then the other.
She’s sitting on the edge of my bed now, coffee in her hands and that knowing look she only pulls out when she’s halfway between mother and mind-reader. But this time? She doesn’t press.
“I came to let you know the boys are staying either here or with Beau and Sydney,” she says, calm and efficient. “One of the tech girls is coming out of retirement to help with everything. She’s bringing family, and I’d rather not mix chaos with security protocols.”
I blink at her. “Tech?”
“Her name’s Greer,” she says. “Single. Twenty-seven. Pregnant.”
My brain stutters. “Wait—he’s pregnant?”
“She,” Mom corrects gently. “And yes. She also has custody of her nephew, Micah. He’s eighteen and repeating his senior year here. And his little sister Evie is five.”
I sit up slowly, the sheet dragging against my skin. “That’s a lot.”
“She calls them her niece and nephew,” she says. “Her cousin … well, the kids are where they need to be.”
That part hangs heavy, but I don’t press because this is a matter of the heart, and Mom, she’s all heart.
She looks tired but grounded, like her hands are full and her heart’s doing that complicated thing it does when she’s caring for people, going all-in.
“Are you okay?” I ask, voice quieter than I meant.
She smiles. Not big but real. “Yeah, of course.”
I nod as I reach for the coffee and scoot over. She moves beside me, and we just sit there, shoulder to shoulder, watching the snow fall and sharing a cup of coffee.
“Do you ever miss our lives before?”
“I miss my kids being home, in my arms, in a walker scooting around, all four of you under one roof.”
“I mean, before money became an issue?”
She laughs softly, “Oh, Lauren, money was an issue then, too. But I can tell you”—she sighs—“sometimes having less felt more.”
“I’ll take this over when Luke left for the Army.”
She smiles. “Or when Riley dated that piece of trash. Or Jackson started his wandering.”
I lift my nose in the air. “And I’m the perfect child.”
“You are the observant and cautious child,” she says, squeezing my hand. “Sometimes, you were too cautious.”
“Yeah, well, do you blame me?”
She shakes her head. “I did worry that you … We held you so tight that I feared we emotionally clipped your wings. I sometimes thought we’d never see you soar like we did them. That was as terrifying as it was with the others.”
“I didn’t fly far,” I half-mock myself.
“Because you didn’t have to. You have always known who you were and what you wanted.” She giggles. “And what you didn’t, like the braces your dad caught you removing with a pair of pliers in the garage because you loved bubble gum.”
“Lesson learned. I ended up having them all through high school and my first year of college.”
“Thank God we had good dental insurance.”
“I know Riley’s all getting ready for a wedding and a baby, and even if she can’t, can you and I go away for a weekend?”
“Can we go now?” she jokes … sort of.
We hear the trucks outside.
“Are they plowing?” I ask, and she nods. “We’re closed for three days, and I have four-wheel drive.”
She pops a kiss to my head and slides off the bed. “Gotta keep clear paths.”
“I guess.”
“Love you, but I need to get next-door to see what we’ll need.”
“Are the boys going to Riley’s or is Greer?” I ask.
“I think we should give her a chance to settle in and get comfortable. We can be a lot.” She winks.
“All right then. Love you.”
“Come home for dinner?”
“Depends. Who do you guys have at the house again?”
She laughs as she walks out, calling behind her, “You’ll have to come and find out.”
There’s a brief moment that I consider staying in bed, but that moment gives way to the fact I need to help Mom out, even though she didn’t ask.
I opt to skip my shower, knowing I’ll be putting in some work.
* * *
When I walk out of my room, Kolby pops his head out of his, scaring the hell out of me.
He smiles. “Think I could use your shower?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Not my business, but where you off to?”
I ponder that a moment, let it sit with me because telling him I love that you wanna know is kinda scary. So, I opt for, “I don’t hate that you asked.”
His lips twitch up. “No?”
I shake my head and answer, “Over to Riley’s to help out.”
“So”—he rubs the back of his neck—“are we going to Boone’s or …?”
“That’s up for you to decide,” I say, smiling as I head downstairs.
Stepping off the last step, I realize that Iz, Mags, and Skinner are all staring at me.
“What are you two doing, sitting here when Mom needs our help?” I ask, heading straight for the bacon.
Mags laughs. “Aunt Jade said, if you come down here all, what are you two doing sitting here when Mom needs our help , to make you sit and eat before you go over.”
Iz scoops up some eggs. “Damn right she did.”
“I can lend a hand or two,” Skinner offers as he pulls his feet off the chair and nods for me to sit.
“You’re in playoff season; you have one job that requires all of your focus,” I remind him.
Iz chuckles. “Well, how did I end up wearing so many hats?” She holds up one finger. “Unpaid emotional support intern”—another—“certified crybaby coordinator.”
“Oh my God, what’s up with Knicks?” Maggie laughs.
Izzy throws a piece of bacon at her. “You walked away, left me there to deal with his ego.”
“Should have referred him to Ava.” Skinner chuckles.
“Oh, and poor you.” Maggie picks up where Iz left off. “I’m in senior year and still haven’t picked a real path. But I am very good at watching other people do things, so yeah, I’m in.”
“Truly an inspiration,” I deadpan.
She salutes me with her coffee. “I’m feeling college dropout vibes, baby.”
I point a piece of bacon at her. “You’re going to college after that show.”
“Show?” Skinner asks before biting into a pancake, egg, and bacon sandwich he’s slapped together.
Maggie grins. “ Wilderness Warriors .”
Skinner gasps loudly. One hand clutches his hoodie like he’s physically wounded. “ Noooo. No, no, no. You did not sign up for the Hunger Games: Small Town Edition .”
Maggie just shrugs, unbothered, sipping her orange juice like it’s a martini. “I did. I’m going.” She crosses her eyes. “I passed the psych eval and everything.”
“That’s what worries me,” Skinner mutters. “You passed a psych eval and still chose this? Girl, you should be on Love Villa: Bloodlines or Catfight Cabins. Something where no one gets trench foot!”
Izzy nearly chokes on her pancake.
Maggie laughs. “You’re just mad I’ll be off-grid and unreachable.”
“You’ll be off your rocker after three days of cold rain and a protein bar named Chad’s Nut Crunch, or whoever they get to sponsor the madness that season,” Skinner huffs. “Mark my words, you are more the main character of Don’t Text Your Ex Island. You belong in a house with neon lights and emotional sabotage, not the woods.”
I lean forward, elbows on the table, voice dry but certain. “She’s gonna win the whole damn thing.”
Skinner blinks at me like I’ve betrayed him.
“She’s scrappy, stubborn, and impossible to stop,” I continue. “Half the cast will be begging to be voted out by day five, and Maggie will be there, building a waterproof shelter out of their egos.”
Maggie salutes me with her coffee.
Izzy grins. “And when she makes it a popularity vote, she’ll charm the cameraman and win the whole internet.”
“I am surprisingly likable,” Maggie agrees.
Skinner shakes his head in mock defeat. “Fine. But when you come back wearing a squirrel pelt and communicating in whistles, I will be there to say I told you so .”
Maggie just grins wider. “You can hold the glitter cannon at the finale.”
Phones sound off in a domino effect, and I pull mine out of my pocket to see if I missed a message.
Huh, my lucky day. “Not it.”
Iz stands up. “Oh please, they know it’s your day off; they aren’t sending you all over BV to do this or grab that.”
“Guess we’re out.” Mags smiles. “There’s a buddy system for the underpaid and underappreciated, too.”
“Wish I could help.” Skinner holds up his hands and wiggles his fingers. “But I need to keep these million-dollar mittens safe from hangnails and slivers.”
Oh man, I wonder if Kolby’s up there, checking his email now.
I look up, and he’s coming down the stairs.
“Oh shit, man, look at you all showered and wearing yesterday’s clothes.”
“Don’t have to be dirty just because we’re displaced,” Kolby says as he walks over, leans in, and sniffs him. “Skinner man, you stink.”
The girls are taking their damn time … retying their boots.
“Sleep well?” Skinner asks him, too light, too innocent.
“Like a rock,” he mutters, stealing the last slice of bacon from his plate.
“Funny,” Skinner says. “I could’ve sworn I heard someone stomping around up there like they were trying to break the bed frame and stay silent about it.”
Kolby rolls his eyes. “Was that before or after your snoring rattled the rafters?”
Maggie snorts, and Izzy full-on cackles.
Skinner just smirks, tapping a finger to his temple. “Touché, Grimes, touché.”
Maggie glances at me. “You heading over to Riley’s now?”
“Yeah.” I stand.
“We’ll walk with you,” Izzy says.
Mags links her arm with Izzy’s. “Buddy system.”
“Were a thrupple.” Iz wags her brows.
“You’re something,” I say as I head to the door.
* * *
We’re boxing up Riley’s room, and that somehow feels more impossible than it should. Not hard in a sad way—she’s not moving far, only twenty minutes away, which is closer than when she lived in Syracuse—but still.
“It’s the end of an era. Her shelves are bare, her throw pillows are scattered across half a dozen boxes, and we keep finding weirdly sentimental things she swore she didn’t care about,” Mom says as she folds a stack of pastel baby onesies Riley ordered “just to manifest.”
Grandma Maggie, glasses halfway down her nose, is sorting books into piles like she’s judging their literary taste. She’d find mine a little too spicey, I’m sure.
“You girls have no idea how much stuff your sister hoards.” She shakes her head at the third copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting . “She already expects.”
“She’s nesting.” Mom flips a onesie inside out. “Hormones plus Amazon Prime equals clutter.”
I hold up an unopened tube of nipple cream. “She could open a black market maternity shop. Niche but probably profitable.”
Then we hear the front door. Keys hit the floor. Fast footsteps.
I stand. “Call out, soldier. We’re on high alert here.”
“I’ll be next-door, okay Brooksie?” Hart says.
She doesn’t reply.
Moments later, Riley storms in like a pregnant tornado. Her face is red, eyes already brimming, lips trembling. “No one warned me about this part in the group chat!” she snaps, voice cracking. “That pregnancy turns you EMO!” And just like that, she’s crying. Not soft, single-tear movie crying—this is full-body, gulping, hands-flailing crying. “I bawled at a jelly commercial!” she continues. “It was just a guy making toast for his wife! He loved her and made her toast, and I’m over here, sobbing like I’ve never had jam in my life!”
I blink. “Okay. That’s … new.”
“Don’t okay me!” She hiccups. “I looked at a burp cloth and got emotional! A burp cloth, Lo!”
I catch Mom trying so hard not to laugh that her shoulders are shaking.
“This might be your origin story,” she says. “Riley, mother, feeler of all the feelings.”
Grandma doesn’t miss a beat, just wraps Riley up in a hug like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Welcome to the club, sweetheart. We cry, we scream, we keep the world turning, and we love.”
Riley lets out a soaked, snotty laugh against her shoulder. “I used to be cool.”
I walk over and brush her hair back from her damp forehead. “No, babe. You thought you were cool, but you’ve always been this dramatic. We’re just blaming it on hormones now.”
But honestly? It’s kind of nice seeing her feel everything this deeply.
“Here, have some nipple cream.” I smile, holding it out to her.
She snatches it away. “I need beer, not nipple cream.”
“Well, you screwed that up, didn’t you?” I hug her, and we both laugh … but she cries, too.