Chapter 2
It’s been a year since I’ve moved back with my parents after Andy and I had broken up over his breach of trust. I kicked him out of my apartment, but I couldn’t stay there by myself—too many downer thoughts—so I packed my suitcase and haven’t been back to my apartment in Unity Grove since.
The lease ends next month, and I’ll likely just pay movers to pack everything up rather than face that empty space again.
Amazing how a few walls can hold too many memories I’m afraid to face.
Mom flips another pancake onto the growing stack as I slice strawberries into little stars.
The morning news drones on about changing weather patterns—Spring is finally here, and I couldn’t be happier.
My hands and feet are constantly cold during the winter months, and I’ll be more than happy to shed the second pair of cotton socks I usually wear.
“You’re getting fancy with those,” Mom says, nodding at my berry art.
I shrug. “First graders appreciate the aesthetic. Makes them think I’m a culinary genius instead of just a desperate teacher trying to get them to eat something besides chicken nuggets.”
The kitchen fills with the smell of butter and maple syrup—comfort scents from my childhood that never diminish in power. I’ve fallen back into domestic rhythms here like I never left, like the past four years of independence were a fleeting dream.
Footsteps pound down the stairs, and Chrissy bursts into the kitchen in a flurry of perfume and jingling bracelets.
“Morning,” she chirps, grabbing a piece of toast.
My eyes perform a double-take at my sister. Gone are the baggy pants and oversized hoodies, replaced by a floral sundress, jewelry, and curls in her hair. “You know, I miss my tomboy sister sometimes.”
Chrissy rolls her eyes but can’t hide her smile. “People change, big sis.”
“It wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain boy named Theo, would it?” I wiggle my eyebrows.
“Shut up.” Her cheeks flush pink.
Dad shuffles in with little Noah trailing behind, the morning paper tucked under his arm. “Morning, ladies.” He plants a kiss on Mom’s cheek and ruffles my hair like I’m still twelve.
Noah barrels into my legs. “Maisie! I got a new race car!”
I scoop him up and plant a kiss on his forehead. “Did you? Is it super fast?”
“The fastest!” he exclaims, arms stretched wide.
Mom sets plates stacked with pancakes on the table, her attention split between serving breakfast and watching Blitz Kitchen on the small countertop TV.
The cooking contestants scramble to arrange their creations while the host counts down dramatically.
Some things never change—namely Mom’s obsession with competitive cooking shows.
“Five, four, three . . .” the TV host shouts.
“Use the tweezers for the garnish!” Mom yells, waving her spatula at the screen.
Dad chuckles, settling Noah into his booster seat. “Your mother thinks they can hear her.”
“They should consider themselves lucky they can’t,” I whisper back.
We all settle around the table, passing plates and syrup. I take a seat across from Chrissy, who’s already texting beneath the table.
“So, Chrissy, how’s senior year treating you?” I ask, stealing Noah’s strawberry when he isn’t looking.
She looks up. “I can’t believe it’s almost over. Just three more months until graduation. Everyone’s studying for finals, and we have this group project in Economics, but at least I’m partnered with Theo and Steph.”
“Feels like yesterday she was starting kindergarten,” Dad says, struggling to keep Noah’s shoes on his feet. The little trickster has developed a talent for kicking them off at the most inconvenient times.
I take a bite of pancake. “And how are things with Theo?”
Chrissy’s bright smile tells me everything I need to know about their relationship. “Couldn’t be better.” Then her smile recedes. “But we’re dealing with college applications now. We’re trying to go to the same place, but if he gets that football scholarship to Oregon State . . .”
“Long distance is tough,” I say, trying not to sound like the voice of doom.
“We’ll figure it out.” The conviction in her voice makes me both envious and protective—that beautiful certainty of first love, undamaged by reality.
“Noah, please,” Dad groans as another tiny shoe goes flying. “We need to leave in five minutes.”
“No shoes!” Noah declares triumphantly.
Dad checks his watch and sighs. “Time to go, buddy. Work waits for no man, even tiny shoeless ones.” He scoops Noah up, grabs his lunch box, and the boy’s rebellious footwear. “Have a good day, ladies.”
After a comedy of errors involving Noah’s stubborn feet and more shoe rebellion, the front door finally closes behind them.
I sit at the breakfast table flipping through pages in my notebook, trying to finish a song for my first graders about clouds or letters or friendship—at this point, I’ll take anything that rhymes and doesn’t sound like emotional roadkill.
The line I’m writing trails off mid-verse, as if it has given up on me. I tap the end of my pen against the paper, hoping inspiration appears again like a musical fairy godmother.
“How did your date go, honey?” Mom asks, spritzing the blue-violet irises lined up along the windowsill like floral sentries. She handles them with the kind of reverence usually reserved for newborn babies or crockpots at church potlucks.
“Oh yeah,” Chrissy says with a mouthful of dough. “What’s the verdict?”
“Total disaster,” I remark as a moderately good lyric comes to mind.
Chrissy’s ears might as well perk up with how she looks at me. “What happened?”
“Well . . .” I flip to a clean page. “His phone kept going off, so I thought he was texting another girl, and when he went to the bathroom, I kinda looked at his phone. And he caught me.”
The spritzer stops, and Mom gasps. “You didn’t.”
“You’re brave,” Chrissy adds.
Okay, yeah. Maybe, technically, I committed a small act of digital trespassing. But my instincts weren’t exactly coming out of nowhere. “He seemed untrustworthy,” I say, letting my pen roll across the table. “It was the right call, I think.”
“According to that podcast I listen to,” Chrisy says, fiddling with a piece of pancake, “like sixty-seven percent of people on dating apps are already in relationships or talking to multiple people at once.”
Mom comes over and pulls out a chair beside me, placing her hand gently over mine, all warmth and the faint scent of lavender hand lotion. “Suspicion won’t get you far, sweetheart. Just like flowers need water and sunshine to bloom, relationships need trust and respect.”
Says the woman who’s never had her heart torn into confetti by someone who promised just that. “What if the flower’s been lied to, gaslit, and left in the drought while he ran off with the garden hose?”
She blinks. “That’s . . . a very dramatic picture.”
“Exactly.” I close my notebook with a sigh. “Maybe I’m just meant to be a spinster. I’ll wear floral muumuus and adopt many cats. Possibly start a podcast about the joys of being single.”
Chrissy laughs.
Mom waves the idea away like it personally offends her. “Don’t say that. You just need to take that leap of faith and let someone in.”
Not happening. Not after Andy.
Trust is like an egg—once it breaks and spills, it’s impossible to put it back together.
Chrissy’s phone vibrates on the table. “Gotta go. Theo’s waiting for me outside.” She takes the last bite of breakfast and chases it down with orange juice, then grabs her bookbag and steps out the door.
It’s just Mom and me at the table now. I return to my notebook, trying to rhyme “cloud” with something other than “proud” or “loud” for the fifteenth time this morning.
“Did you hear Lindsey Stewart is engaged to Andy?” Mom says, and my pen stops cold. “I expect an invitation to the wedding any day now.”