Chapter 7
Mitch
I haul our bags inside. Macy’s already unzipping hers before I even make it down the hall. That’s Macy for you—unpack first, breathe later. I leave mine by the door and head back outside to clean out the truck.
There’s grass on the floorboards, crumbs, Slim Jim wrappers, empty gas station cups—the usual aftermath of a weekend away. The air still smells faintly like lake water and sunscreen.
I’m halfway through grabbing a handful of trash when I hear the side door to the house open.
Mom’s barefoot, crossing the concrete with that clipped walk that tells me something’s off before she even speaks.
“Hey,” I say carefully.
“Guess you guys had fun?” she asks, and her voice has that sharp edge to it—soft words, hard tone. My stomach sinks.
“Yeah,” I say, keeping it light. “Per usual. Just cleaning up.”
Her arms fold, lips pressed thin. The tension in her shoulders makes it look like even breathing annoys her.
“You know,” she starts, “your grandparents wanted to see you two before they left for Florida again.”
I blink. “We saw them Wednesday. And Thursday before graduation. Everyone knew we were going to the lake after.”
“Yeah, well,” she says, her voice rising, “the more I thought about it, the more I wondered why you couldn’t have left the next morning instead of tearing out right after the ceremony…just to what? Drink?”
“No—”
“So you didn’t drink?”
Her arms tighten across her chest. The way she says it makes it clear there’s no right answer.
I sigh. “We did a little, yeah, but—”
“Right.” Her laugh is sharp, humorless. “You think I’m stupid?”
“No, Mom, I’m just answering your question.”
“Yeah, and I’m just telling you that busting out of town to go have a weekend away with your friends, getting drunk, being stupid, and who knows what else, is immature. And it was rude to your grandparents, who came to see you.”
I stare at her, dumbfounded. The argument doesn’t even make sense.
She’s never been a prude about drinking—she’s bought us beer herself, let the guys stay over knowing we’d be drinking.
She and my dad did the exact same things at our age.
This isn’t about alcohol. It’s about control.
And that’s what frustrates me the most—the hypocrisy.
And it’s not just me. Macy gets it too—different topics, same tone. We’ve learned to take the hits quietly. Because when you try and defend yourself, you dig yourself in deeper. We’ve both learned that the hard way; arguing just makes everything worse.
I take a slow breath, forcing my voice to calm. “Sorry, but you knew we were leaving right after graduation. Everyone did. I had my truck packed and everything.”
She shakes her head. “I just don’t understand why you can’t think about someone other than yourself for once.”
That one hits, the way it always does. Cheap shot, same as last time.
I stare at the ground, jaw tight, fighting the urge to bite back. Because that’s the trap—she pushes, we react, she cries, and somehow we’re the ones apologizing for hurting her feelings.
So I just nod, like I’m the bad guy again.
“Okay, sorry,” I say again. “I’ll call them tomorrow.”
She doesn’t answer. Just turns around, muttering something about “disrespectful kids” as she walks back inside.
The screen door slams behind her, leaving me standing there in the quiet hum of the early afternoon, holding a handful of trash and wondering how I’m still the one who feels guilty.
So I do what I always do. I give it ten minutes…then I go find her.
She’s on the couch, TV on, volume steady. Some daytime talk show she’s not really watching. She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t pause it. Doesn’t even acknowledge I’ve walked in.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“For?” she asks, eyes still fixed on the screen.
“For…everything you just said.”
She lets out a short, humorless breath. “Yeah. Take the easy way out.”
Something in my chest tightens. I stand there another second, waiting for her to say more—waiting for an opening—but it doesn’t come. So I walk away. Not because I don’t care. But because I’ve already tried.
By the time I finish cleaning out the truck, the sun has slipped behind a few clouds, everything looks calmer than it really is. The air smells like cut grass and the rain that’s been threatening all afternoon.
My mom’s words replay in my head on a loop. My grandparents. The way she said it, like I’d blown them off on purpose. Maybe I had. That wasn’t my intention, but intentions don’t always land the way you mean them to.
So I pull out my phone and call my grandma.
She answers on the third ring, cheerful as ever. We talk about the trip, the lake, the weather. The usual things she always asks about. And when I finally get around to apologizing for leaving early and fast, she laughs like the idea is ridiculous.
“Oh, honey,” she says. “We know how excited you were to be graduated and go celebrate with your friends.”
And that pit that was sitting low loosens. I knew mom was exaggerating and just painting a picture she wanted to see. Whatever. We hang up after she tells me about her yard and the problem she’s having with bees, and I head inside, the screen door squeaking behind me.
Macy’s in her room, still unpacking for some reason. I look to her open suitcase on the bed, clothes folded in neat piles, and hear the sound of hangers sliding on the closet rod, filling the silence. Then she walks out, and I see her face. Red, tear-streaked. Mom was here too.
I lean against the doorway. “Hey.”
She sucks in a breath, like she’s trying to steady her voice. “Hi.”
I step farther into the room, keeping my voice low. “Don’t let her get to you.”
She scratches the back of her head. “I just don’t get it. We didn’t do anything we said we wouldn’t.”
“And when has that ever mattered?” I counter.
“Sometimes I wish she’d just say she misses us.” Her voice is quieter now. “Instead of finding a reason to make us feel bad for doing exactly what we said we were.”
“Yeah,” I say softly. “Me too.”
She sits down on the edge of her bed, tucking one leg underneath her. “I’m just tired of being here.”
“You keep grinding with your business and you could move out, Mace.”
“Yeah, but that’s not guaranteed. And then what?”
“I don’t know. You talked about getting a place with Callie?”
“I know. It’s just…a lot to think about.
And I already know how that conversation would go with Mom…
Oh, so we’re just that awful to live with that you want to move out?
” She shakes her head. “Meanwhile, they’ve already mentioned rent to both of us, so what’s the point of paying to live somewhere I don’t even want to be? ”
I lean against the wall, scanning the shelves lined with her body scrubs and lotions. She’s got a point. And she’s already been doing pretty well—way better than she gives herself credit for. Now that we’re out of school, she’ll have more time to focus on it, market it, grow it.
And between that and the landscaping business Luke and I started last year, we’re both doing okay. Not perfect. But not bad for eighteen.
“Maybe we should all just get a place,” I say, half joking. “You, me, Callie, and Luke. The small-business-owners’ house.”
Macy laughs. “It’d be like Friends but small-town.”
“Exactly. With pickup trucks instead of taxis.”
“Be fun,” she says.
“Yeah.” I grin. “It would.”