Chapter Twenty #2
“You can’t just show up to formal with whatever hairstyle you usually wear. This requires planning and practice runs.”
Sophie nods enthusiastically. “I’ve already been researching updos that would complement your face shape and dress style. I’m thinking something elegant but not too formal, romantic but not overly complicated.”
“You’ve been researching hairstyles for me?”
“Of course. What kind of friends would we be if we didn’t help you look amazing for such an important night?”
Derek leans over and whispers in my ear, “Should I be worried that they’ve put more thought into this dance than I have?”
“You should be worried that they’ve put more thought into this dance than the actual dance committee has.”
Maya apparently has excellent hearing. “The actual dance committee is focusing on decorations and music. We’re focusing on the important stuff, making sure you two look perfect together and have an unforgettable experience.”
“What we want,” I say diplomatically, “is to have fun together without too much pressure or expectations.”
“Exactly,” Maya says, completely missing the point. “Which is why proper planning is essential. Fun doesn’t just happen, it requires coordination and attention to detail.”
The conversation continues along these lines for the rest of lunch, with Maya and Sophie adding increasingly elaborate elements to their formal planning while Derek and I try to convince them that we prefer simplicity.
By the time the bell rings, they’ve somehow involving color-coded spreadsheets, multiple venue options, and a professional photographer.
“Your friends are very… enthusiastic,” Derek observes as we walk toward afternoon classes.
“That’s one word for it. I’m starting to think we should just skip formal entirely and go see a movie instead.”
“Don’t let Maya hear you say that. She might actually faint.”
The rest of the school day passes in a blur of classes and assignments. By the time the final bell rings, I’m ready to get away from campus and spend some quiet time with Derek away from our well-meaning but overwhelming friends.
The afternoon passes quickly. After practice, Derek drives me to the small ice cream place downtown that’s become our unofficial date spot. It’s nothing fancy, plastic chairs and checkered tablecloths, but it’s ours in a way that feels important.
“Two scoops of mint chocolate chip,” Derek tells the teenager behind the counter, “and whatever she wants.”
“Rocky road in a waffle cone,” I add.
We find a table by the window where we can watch the street life of our small coastal town. Tourists with cameras and locals walking dogs, surfers carrying boards back from afternoon sessions.
“How are you feeling about everything with Jeremy and Emma?” Derek asks, taking a careful bite of his ice cream.
“Better than I expected. It’s still complicated, but it doesn’t feel overwhelming anymore.
” I pause, trying to articulate the change.
“I think I was so focused on the big dramatic reunion that I forgot relationships are actually built through small moments. Like them being here, seeing our town, getting to know the normal parts of my life.”
“That makes sense. Drama gets all the attention, but it’s the regular stuff that actually matters.”
“Exactly. Like this.” I gesture between us. “Ice cream dates and color-coordinating for formal. The everyday things.”
Derek reaches across the table and takes my hand. “I like our everyday things.”
“Me too.”
We finish our ice cream as the sun starts to sink lower in the sky, painting the downtown in golden late-afternoon light. Derek insists on paying, despite my protests, and we walk hand in hand back to his car.
The drive home is comfortable, filled with easy conversation about school, friends, weekend plans that don’t involve family drama or emotional revelations. When we pull into my driveway, I’m almost disappointed that the normal part of my day is ending.
Derek walks me to the front door, a habit he’s developed over the past few weeks. It’s old-fashioned in a way that makes me feel cherished rather than patronized.
“Thanks for today,” I say, turning to face him on the porch. “For practice, for ice cream, for being normal when everything else has been so complicated.”
“Thanks for letting me be part of it.”
He leans down to kiss me, and I tilt my face up to meet him. But just as our lips are about to touch, the front door swings open behind me.
“Evening, kids,” Robert says, appearing in the doorway with a timing that would be impressive if it weren’t so mortifying.
Derek immediately steps back, his cheeks flushing slightly. “Good evening, Mr. Carlson.”
“Derek, how many times do I have to tell you to call me Robert?” But he’s smiling as he says it. “And how was your afternoon of corrupting my daughter?”
“We practiced soccer and got ice cream,” I say quickly. “Very wholesome corruption.”
“The most dangerous kind,” Robert replies with a completely straight face. “Derek, you’d better head home. I hear there’s a curfew for teenagers who eat ice cream with my daughter.”
“There is not,” I protest, but Derek is already backing toward his car.
“Yes sir, I should get going anyway. See you tomorrow, Olivia.”
“See you tomorrow.”
As Derek drives away, I turn to glare at Robert. “Really? You couldn’t wait thirty more seconds?”
“I have excellent timing. It’s one of my many parenting skills.”
“Your timing is terrible.”
“My timing is perfect. That boy gets any more smitten with you, and he’s going to forget how to drive home safely.”
Despite my embarrassment, I can’t help smiling. Robert has been making dad jokes since I was six, and somehow, they’ve never gotten less ridiculous or more annoying.
“Come inside,” he says, holding the door open. “Your mom’s making dinner, and she could use the company.”
The smell hits me the moment I walk into the kitchen; something complex and delicious that requires more effort than Mom usually puts into weeknight meals.
She’s at the stove, stirring a pot of what looks like homemade marinara sauce, her hair pulled back in the tightest bun I’ve ever seen her wear.
The kitchen is immaculate in a way that suggests obsessive cleaning, with every surface sparkling and ingredients lined up with military precision. Mom’s wearing an apron I didn’t know we owned, and there are three different types of pasta boiling on the stovetop simultaneously.
“Mom?” I set my backpack down carefully, noting the way she’s gripping the wooden spoon. “What’s all this?”
“Dinner,” she says without looking up from the sauce. “I thought we should have a nice family meal before Jeremy and Emma head back to Michigan tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? I thought they were staying through the weekend.”
“Change of plans.” She moves to check on the garlic bread in the oven, her movements sharp and efficient. “They need to get back.”
Something in her tone makes my stomach clench. “Why? What happened?”
“Nothing happened. Everything’s fine.” But her voice is too bright, too controlled. “Emma just needs to get back to school, and Jeremy has work obligations.”
I study her face, noting the tension around her eyes, the way she’s avoiding looking at me directly. “Mom, what’s going on?”
“Nothing’s going on. I took care of everything.”
“Took care of what?”
She finally stops stirring and turns to face me, but her expression is closed off in a way I recognize from years of difficult conversations. “I took care of Lilly. She’s not going to be a problem anymore.”
The casual way she says it sends a chill down my spine. “What do you mean, you took care of her?”
“I mean exactly what I said. Emma won’t have to worry about her mother’s ultimatums anymore.”
I take a step closer, trying to read her expression. “Mom, what did you do?”
“I did what I should have done eighteen years ago.” She turns back to the stove, effectively ending the conversation. “I protected my family.”
“Mom, you’re scaring me. What did you do to Lilly?”
“Don’t worry about it,” she says firmly, checking the pasta with more attention than it requires. “She’s not going to be a problem anymore. That’s all you need to know.”
Robert appears in the kitchen doorway, drawn by the tension in our voices. He takes in the scene, the obsessive cooking, Mom’s rigid posture, my confused expression, and his face becomes carefully neutral.
“Everything okay in here?”
“Everything’s fine,” Mom says quickly. “Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes.”
But everything is clearly not fine. The kitchen feels charged with an energy I don’t understand, and my mom’s behavior is unlike anything I’ve seen from her before.
She’s always been protective—sometimes overly so—but this feels different: more intense.
More… final. “Mom,” I try again, “please tell me what’s going on. ”
“I said don’t worry about it, Olivia.” Her voice has a sharp edge that makes me take a step back. “Some things are better left alone.”
The sauce bubbles on the stove, the pasta timer counts down, and my mother continues her manic dinner preparation while refusing to explain why Jeremy and Emma are suddenly leaving early or what she’s done to make Lilly “not a problem anymore.”
As I watch her move around the kitchen with unusual intensity, I realize that while I’ve been learning to navigate relationships with my biological father and half sister, I may have underestimated the lengths my mother will go to protect the family she’s built.
And that scares me more than I want to admit.