Chapter 19
Change of Plans
Renée
The music coming from Jonah’s property can be heard in my kitchen over the sizzling stove and, despite my best efforts, I catch my shoulders swaying to the beat.
“He’s really good,” my sister remarks. She chops the remaining cucumber and slides it onto the salad. When I don’t say anything she continues. “I still can’t believe you went to his rugby game yesterday.”
I swallow. “It was a nice day. We got some fresh air.”
Amber snorts and side-eyes me. “Right, because you’re usually such an indoor cat.”
The girls are outside, and we watch them through the kitchen window dancing along to the concert next door. I can hear Delta’s voice before she’s even opened the sliding door, Lo in her wake. “Mom, can we go over to Jonah’s house? He’s playing music!”
“No, sweetie. He’s having a family dinner.”
“Please,” she says, dragging out the word, like if she says it slowly and with enough crooked teeth I’ll change my mind.
Lo tugs on my shirt, her eyes so big and shiny she looks like she wandered straight out of a Pixar movie.
I’m a veteran mom. A battle-hardened negotiator. I’ve survived tantrums, bedtime stall tactics, and approximately one million snack-related emergencies. I should be immune to all this, but I’m absolutely not immune to that face.
Saying no physically hurts sometimes, like a tiny bruise right behind my ribs.
Because I see the disappointment flicker in their faces, quick and sharp, and I hate being the one who put it there.
Still, I’ve spent their whole lives protecting them—rounding off sharp corners, padding the hard truths, keeping the world safely at arm’s length.
I built us a fortress, stone by careful stone.
I dug a moat. I posted guards. No monsters allowed.
Except now there’s a problem in the shape of an infuriatingly handsome rugby player who moved in next door, who smiles too easily and opens his heart with no reservation.
He looks at my girls like the world is full of possibility instead of danger.
Like joy is something you’re allowed to touch.
The way I used to look at things before Greg.
And every instinct in me screams that Jonah is a threat. Not to them.
To my control.
Ever since the storm—ever since Delta sang “Blackbird” while Jonah played guitar—I lie awake in bed, the thunder fading into memory, guilt bouncing around my chest like a pinball.
Because the truth is: I’m the monster. I placed an embargo on music like a tyrant with good intentions and terrible coping skills.
My husband is gone. I survived him. I’m free of the man who turned joy into a weapon. So why does music still feel dangerous? Why does the thought of singing make my throat constrict? Why does imagining my mandolin in my hands feel less like nostalgia and more like open-heart surgery?
I should be past this. I’m not.
Now, late at night, through the walls that feel too thin to protect me from anything, I hear Delta sing to her sister when she thinks I can’t hear.
I lie there, staring at the ceiling, tears leaking sideways into my hair, because this—this ease, this love—is something I lost. Something I taught myself to fear.
I want it back. I want to sing again. I want to play like I did before Greg made stages feel like cages and spotlights feel like interrogation lamps.
My rational brain knows better—it knows he lied.
And yet there’s a quiet, stubborn part of me that still believes him. That still whispers, You’re not enough.
Fear doesn’t just disappear when your bully dies.
For me, control isn’t just comforting—it’s addictive. It’s how I keep my daughters safe. It’s how I keep myself from unraveling. But the life I stitched together to keep us safe is starting to fray, exposing little gaps for the cold to sneak in. Do I patch them or start over?
“I said no,” I tell Delta, my voice firm but gentle. “Now go wash up for dinner. I can see dirt caked under your fingernails. Tracy will be here in a half hour and you two look like ragamuffins.”
As expected, my offspring protest the decision but eventually accept their fate and head for the bathroom.
Amber prattles on about the pay pig she’s excited to meet up with tonight, but my focus is across the lawn and garden separating my life from Jonah’s.
His house is farther back from the road than mine, so I can’t see everything going on, but based on the number of cars and people I watched arrive, Jonah has a large family.
I wonder if they’re all like him—ridiculous and free-spirited—or if he’s an outlier. Are they kind to him? Do they know how generous he is? They must—I mean he’s hosting a family dinner after all.
I daydream what it would be like to be a part of a large family like that.
I had my sister and parents of course, but we traveled so much that we only had big family dinners like that on the big holidays.
Sometimes not even then because we might have a big Christmas show.
The crew we traveled with became our family, but as I think about them now, I don’t even know where they all ended up.
There used to be people who cared deeply for me, and now.
.. I don’t know if I’d be able to pick them out of a crowd.
He’s so lucky to have a family like this—everyone close enough to drive and show up on a random late-summer Sunday. He’s rich in more ways than one.
But seriously, how wealthy is this family? There are two luxury vehicles in the driveway, but most are mid-range as far as price. How the fuck can he afford his house?
Deep down, I wish I had accepted his dinner invitation, for nothing more than to witness his family dynamics.
But as I’ve proven, I’m stubborn as an ox.
Isolation and control have been my best friends.
They welcomed me with open arms, armed me with a metaphorical pistol, and said Never again.
So, yes, straying from my protective routine, accepting the invitation to be at his family dinner, would be a massive step. It feels unattainable to say the least.
When dinner is ready, the four of us sit and discuss our days, but my daughters only want to talk about Jonah and his music and his animals and his magical ability to find four-leaf clovers.
We finish our meal, and Delta and Lo jump up and clear the table without being asked.
Each of them makes quick work to remove every last utensil, bowl, and glass.
Amber and I are struck by the same eerie shock because these girls are not only loading the dishwasher, but wiping down the dinner table.
Listen, my girls have manners and were taught to clean up after themselves, but to see them voluntarily do it—and with gusto—is weird.
Delta slams the dishwasher closed and runs back to me, Lo glued to her side. “Mother, Aunt Amber, would you like any tea?”
Mother? When did we climb to the upper echelon of society?
I fold my arms. “What is going on with you two?”
“Um,” Delta mumbles, her fingers twisting in knots between us. “My birthday is coming up.”
“Yes, it is.” She only reminds us daily in the month leading up to it. She cuts back to weekly reminders in the eleven months after.
“We were wondering,” she murmurs, “if instead of the roller rink, could we have my party at Jonah’s?”
My brain takes a moment to buffer. “Wait, what?
It’s Amber’s turn to chime in. “But you’ve been looking forward to the roller rink with your friends all year. I got us sparkly disco outfits. Do you know how hard it was to find matching halter-top jumpsuits that would fit all four of us?”
“We can still wear them,” she says, enthusiasm oozing.
“We better.” Amber huffs. “I had to meet up with a seamstress named Madame Featherhole I found on Craigslist who kept trying to sell me her homemade bookmarks made of human hair. But”—she sighs—“that’s the price you pay for quality.
There’s not a stitch of polyester in those suits.
You know how cheap fabric gives me panic attacks. ”
I ignore my sister. “Why do you want to have a party at Jonah’s?” I ask.
“We want to play with the animals.”
I huff an amused laugh. “Sweetie, we could just have your party at the zoo instead. There are way more, way cooler animals at the zoo.”
“But we want to ride Ginger and play with the Quack Pack.”
“Is that what he calls his ducks?” Amber snorts. “Brilliant.”
“And all my friends would love it!”
My scheming, doe-eyed offspring has me pinned.
If I deny her request, she’ll be heartbroken, and there’s no way she’s going to be happy with the roller rink party when it wasn’t her first choice.
I may be a stick in the mud sometimes, but not when it comes to her birthday.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, imagining how awkward it’s going to be when I ask him for this insane favor.
“I will ask him…” I say as slow and calm as I can before the girls start twirling, their faces brighter than every star in the galaxy.
“But, but, but... he might be busy that day, we don’t know.
I need you to understand he has the right to say no, and then it’s back to our original plan at the roller rink, okay? ”
“Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou!” she screams, before the pair of them hug me with all their might. Their little arms, which aren’t so little anymore, are like a vise around my neck, and their unbridled joy infuses into me.
The girls bound for the living room, turn on the TV, and take out their coloring supplies to hatch party plans while Amber and I finish getting ready for tonight.
It’s my monthly allowance afterall, going to one of these play parties.
But as the date crept closer on the calendar, the unease in my stomach amplified.
I’ve never been this unsure about going—not even the first time Amber took me.