Chapter 17
Mitch
It’s Friday, and another long, hot week is in the books for Luke and me.
No rain this time, so we powered through every yard.
For once, we won’t have to mow tomorrow.
Just the usual Saturday maintenance: sharpen the blades, gas everything up for next week, send out invoices, wash the truck, clean out the cab.
With both of us working, it’ll only take half the day.
I come home coated in grass dust and sweat, and I shower right away because I’m supposed to pick up Callie and bring her over for dinner.
Yeah, she has her own car, and yeah, she only lives five minutes away, but she hates driving.
And the second I started calling myself her boyfriend, it felt like it was my job to get her places.
My responsibility. Maybe Luke rubbed off on me with the whole “take extra care of your girl” thing.
I wouldn’t be surprised if he buckles Maddie’s seat belt for her.
Either way, Callie didn’t ask. I insisted.
I know she’s nervous about dinner, even though she’s been here a hundred times. She and Macy grew up almost sharing rooms between both our houses. But tonight isn’t the same. She’s not here as Macy’s best friend.
She’s here as mine. My girlfriend. The mother of my child.
And I think that’s gotta feel like a lot.
Before I leave, I wander into the kitchen to grab my keys off the counter, then stop short.
Mom’s cooking. Like…actually cooking.
There are three pots on the stove.
Mac and cheese—the kind that actually looks real, not something from a box or in a microwave tray. Corn in another, a few slabs of butter melting over the top. And a third pot with meatballs simmering in sauce.
The table’s even set. Plates, napkins, silverware. All of it laid out like we’re hosting something bigger than a random Friday night dinner.
Which is…not normal around here.
Most nights it’s hamburgers and whatever bread we’ve got, if we’ve got any.
Sometimes not even buns. No sides unless you count leftover shredded cheese melted on top at the last second.
Minute rice if she’s feeling ambitious. Vegetables are a gamble.
It’s usually one of those microwave bags tossed on the counter with a spoon stuck in it—serve yourself.
It’s not about money. We’re not poor. Mom will buy things we don’t need without thinking twice—new decorations, another pair of shoes if there’s a sale. Dad’s the same way. Beers with his buddies, weekends out, no problem.
It just seems like getting by on bare minimum effort to her is a point Mom’s proud to prove.
She notices me standing there and flicks a glance my way, stirring the mac and cheese with the same impatience she gives everything else, like even standing at the stove is an inconvenience.
“Hopefully this is all fine,” she says. “And enough.”
The words come out tight. Irritated. Like she’s already over it.
“It’s just Callie,” I say with a lighthearted laugh.
“I know,” she snaps. “But I’m not gonna feed her Hamburger Helper.”
Hamburger Helper. Forgot about that one. I actually don’t mind that one. When she adds the beef to it, that is. Half the time she says she didn’t feel like browning it.
Macy and I have come to the conclusion that she just doesn’t enjoy extra people in her space but cares too much about how it looks when they are.
You’d never think she hated it, but behind closed doors, everything’s always a hassle to her, even when it’s someone she’s known since they were kids, I guess.
Macy’s leaning against the counter, picking at a corner of a napkin, watching it all play out. She catches my eye and gives me a small shrug like, This is just how she is. Let her go.
Mom wipes her hands on a towel and sighs. “Well, at least we’ll have leftovers.”
I grab my keys and head for the door before the mood shifts any more. Callie doesn’t need to walk into this already feeling on edge.
* * *
Callie’s mom, Carla, opens the door before I’m even halfway up the steps.
“Come on in,” she says warmly. “She’s just grabbing her purse.”
I step inside, wiping my boots on the mat. “Perfect.”
Her dad lifts a hand from his recliner and sits up to talk to me. “Hey, Mitch, how’s business?”
“It’s good,” I say easily. “Busy.”
“Great! Good for you,” he says.
I hope the tightness in my chest doesn’t show. Looking her parents in the eye like this takes more effort than it should. The guilt sits heavy, pressing against every polite word and practiced smile.
Callie appears at the top of the stairs a second later.
She’s wearing light-wash jeans with the cuffs rolled at her ankles and a soft green top that flows when she moves, tucked just slightly in the front.
A gold necklace catches the light as she comes down, and she keeps touching her hair—pushing it back, then pulling it forward again like she can’t decide what to do with it.
She’s nervous.
“Hi,” she breathes when she reaches the bottom.
“Hey.” I smile back. My hands want to do something—hug her, pull her in, kiss her cheek—but with her parents right there, it doesn’t feel like enough space for that. So I shove them loosely in my pockets instead.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Mm-hmm.”
I step aside so she can grab the door. I give her parents one last nod and a quick wave, muttering a goodbye, then follow her out onto the porch.
I rest my hand on her lower back as we go down the steps. The sun hits my face the second we get to the bottom, warm and heavy.
I open her door. She climbs in and buckles, settling her purse on her lap. I shut it gently and circle around to the driver’s side.
Once I’m in and the engine turns over, I glance at her while she’s finding a place for her bag.
“You look…really pretty.”
Her cheeks flush instantly. “Thanks.” She fiddles with her bracelet, twisting it around her wrist.
I pull out of the driveway, stealing another look at her from the corner of my eye. She’s staring out the window now, quiet but calm, sunlight catching in her hair.
She smells like one of Macy’s homemade lotions or body scrubs. Vanilla-ish.
“How were the kids today?”
She lets out a breathy laugh. “Good. I got sick, though.”
“Oh really?”
“At breakfast. The smell of Holland’s blueberry waffle.”
“Noted.” I chuckle; she smiles.
“I hope your mom’s not making breakfast for dinner.”
“Nope, I saw meatballs, mac and cheese, and corn.”
“Ooooh, corn.”
I look at her, confused, but trying not to laugh, one eye on the road. “You’re the first person I’ve met who got more excited for corn than mac and cheese.”
She laughs harder, shaking her head, and I swear the whole truck feels lighter. We drive the rest of the way in that easy silence we’ve always had—comfort layered with nerves, layered with something deeper neither of us has figured out how to name yet.
But as we pull into my driveway, I can tell she’s bracing herself. I reach over and squeeze her hand before she unbuckles.
“You look beautiful,” I repeat quietly. “Just follow my lead tonight, okay?”
She nods, swallowing.
“Okay.”
I push the front door open with my shoulder. The living room’s empty, but the TV’s on—news murmuring low, background noise no one’s really listening to. We kick our shoes off by the door and head straight for the kitchen.
Mom and Dad spot us first. Mom smiles at Callie as she sets a pot holder on the counter and places a glass bowl of corn on top.
“Hey,” she says warmly. “How are ya?”
“Good,” Callie answers easily. “How are you?”
“Good.” Mom glances at her. “You work today?”
Dad takes a seat at the table like it’s his cue.
“Yep,” Callie says. “Fridays are my earlier days.”
“That’s nice.” Mom nods, then looks at me, flicking her chin toward the hallway. “Go tell Macy dinner’s ready.”
I brush my hand lightly against Callie’s back as I head down the hall. Macy’s door is shut, but I can hear music playing softly inside.
“Mace?”
“Come in.”
I twist the knob and step inside. She’s got her folding table set up, gloves on, twenty or thirty dark-amber glass jars lined up in neat little groups.
Some are labeled, others still bare. She’s peeling sticker labels one by one, smoothing them carefully onto the glass.
The room smells like lemon and lavender.
“Dinner’s ready,” I say.
“Okay.” She lowers her voice. “How’s Callie?”
“Alright,” I whisper back. “She got sick today, so…hopefully she can survive dinner.”
“Oh boy,” she mutters, setting the stickers down. She peels the gloves off and drops them into the trash beneath the table.
I glance around her room. It’s turning into a full-blown operation—boxes, jars, supplies everywhere. She’s going to need more space soon. Especially since Mom already claimed her closet back. I still don’t even know what she wanted it for.
When we get back to the kitchen, everyone’s seated. I slide into the chair beside Callie, and the relief on her face when she sees me is subtle but there. My hand finds hers under the table, a quick brush of fingers.
Mom looks at Dad. “You just want to do the God-is-great prayer?”
Macy and I exchange a glance, because that’s the only one we ever do, so I’m not sure what the alternative would be.
Dinner’s easy. Normal. Not nearly as tense as Callie and I built it up to be in our heads.
Dad asks me about work. Mom fills the quiet with stories from her week—the woman singing too loud in the grocery store, the guy who got stuck out front with a flat tire one morning. Nothing profound. Just the usual stream of random things that always seem to happen to her.
And for the moment, it almost feels like everything’s fine.
We end up sitting in the living room afterward, the five of us on the couches. Dad flips through channels until he lands on Home Improvement, because apparently that’s the only show in existence worth watching after seven p.m.
Macy groans. “Why is it always this?”
Dad shrugs. “Tim Allen’s a classic.”
Honestly, it’s fine with me. Callie’s tucked in beside me, Macy on her other side. They talk a little at first, but mostly we all settle into the show. My hand rests on Callie’s leg without thinking.
Mom clocks it immediately.
I feel her eyes before I see them—sharp, curious. Not happy-for-me curious. I’m-watching-you curious. Like she’s waiting to see how far I’ll go, if I’ll mess up, if I’ll cross some invisible line she hasn’t bothered to explain.
It makes me second-guess myself even though I know I’m not doing anything wrong.
I’m not. Still, the weight of her stare crawls under my skin.
Dad glances over once or twice too, subtly, like he’s just checking in.
I get that they’ve never seen me with a girlfriend before, but the scrutiny makes something that feels easy with Callie suddenly feel complicated.
We watch two episodes. After the first one, Macy heads back to her room. Dad’s asleep in his chair by the second, mouth slightly open. Mom’s on her phone, half watching, half not.
Callie stands. “I’m gonna go to the bathroom.”
“Oh yes—” Mom gestures toward the hall, overly polite. “You know where it is.”
Callie almost laughs. She’s been here a hundred times. I don’t think Mom even realizes how ridiculous she sounds.
While Callie’s gone, Mom looks over at me. Really looks. “She okay?” she asks.
“She’s just tired.” I shrug.
“Well, you should ask if she wants you to take her home,” Mom says. “She doesn’t need to sit here watching this dumb show with us if she’s exhausted.”
I nod, already planning to ask her anyway.
When Callie comes back, I don’t even have to say anything. One look at her face—paler, unsteady, her hand brushing her stomach—and it clicks.
I stand. “Ready?”
She nods. “Yeah. I’m tired.” She looks at my mom. “Thanks for dinner. It was good.”
“Of course,” Mom says, waving it off like it’s nothing. “Come anytime.”
Which is funny, because she never actually means that.
Outside, the air’s still warm, cicadas buzzing loud in the trees. Callie buckles into the truck slowly.
“You feeling okay?” I ask.
“Just queasy.”
“Sorry. You did good tonight, though, right? You ate and—”
She closes her eyes, swallowing hard. “Yeah…can we not talk about food right now?”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
I pull out of the driveway. We don’t even make it a minute down the road before she blurts, “Mitch—pull over.”
I swerve onto the shoulder, throw the truck in park. She’s already pushing the door open, barely getting her feet on the ground before she throws up into the grass.
I’m out of the truck in seconds, beside her, my chest tight with helplessness.
When she finally stills, I grab a water bottle from the cupholder and a napkin from the glovebox.
“Here,” I say softly.
She wipes her mouth, tears shining in her eyes. “God. This is so embarrassing.”
“Not to me,” I tell her.
She breathes out shakily, standing upright again. I rub her back, and she folds into me. I wrap an arm around her shoulders and kiss the top of her head.
“I’m really sorry,” I murmur.
“It’s fine,” she says, quiet, and after a few more seconds we climb back into the truck.
When I shut my door and glance over, she’s crying—silent, sniffling. It guts me.
“What’s wrong?” I ask gently.
“I just didn’t think I’d feel like this so early on.”
My throat goes dry. “I know.”
“It’s a lot.”
“I know, babe.”
She doesn’t say anything else. I reach for her hand. She lets me.
“Wanna go home?”
She nods.
I turn back onto the road, the hum of the tires filling the quiet between us, knowing this is only the beginning—even if neither of us is ready to say it out loud yet.