Chapter 2
The rotting wooden steps to the front door groan under my feet, and I make a mental note to send a handyman out to repair them. The paint on the exterior of the single-wide manufactured home needs some love, too. I’m not surprised. It’s been a while since I’ve been back, and I knew my mom was in no state to take care of the house when I left.
The screen outer door squeals on its hinges, and guilt gnaws at my guts. It’s something my dad would have taken care of if he was still around. I clear the knot of emotion from my throat; I’ll oil them before I leave. It’s the least I can do. It takes a moment for my knock on the front door to be answered. I breathe in the cool late March air; the weather is much nicer in northern Georgia than it is in New York City this time of year.
“The prodigal son returns!” Mom answers the door in a house dress and slippers, readers dangling around her neck from a chain with dragonflies on it. “Come in, come in.”
“You look … good.” I offer her a smile that wobbles at the edges. The linoleum in the tiny kitchen is the same as it was my entire childhood, though now it’s yellowing with age and peeling away from the dusty pink cabinet edges.
“How many times have I told you, you never have to knock?” She closes the door behind us and shuffles into the living room. “You grew up here; it’s your own home.”
I wince, gripping the back of my neck, and say to my feet, “Mom, I haven’t lived here in over a decade.”
She tuts. “It will always be your home, Kit.”
How can she say that so easily? She’d had me young—she and Dad were only nineteen—and married when my mom was still pregnant. It made for a hard life. My dad tried his best, but we’d never had money. The walls of this place still echo with the late-night conversations they didn’t think I heard. The ones where they had to choose between cable and a new jacket for me. They always chose me. But when Dad died, I couldn’t choose her.
Mom’s already marching to the kitchen. “You better be staying for dinner.”
“Of course.” I shove my hand through my hair, mussed from the redeye from New York, and that was a mere twenty-four hours after the flight from Paris. I haven’t shaved in almost four days, and Mom reaches up to pat the stubble on my cheek. I give her a weary smile, the vise around my lungs loosening an iota.
“I’m glad you’re home, kid.”
“Me too.” I’ve been a tangle of nerves since she told me she had to have her operation. I put in for a transfer to Atlanta as soon as I heard. Someone needs to take care of her, and I’ll be damned if I’m not here for her. I can do better now, stay this time.
I take my messenger bag off my shoulder and flip it open. “I’ve been looking into some home health nurses to be here when I can’t.” I pull out a stack of tabbed brochures and flop them down onto the small dining table. “I’m still planning on coming by every Wednesday for dinner, like we planned, but—”
She scowls at me. “I can’t afford a nurse, Kit.”
I swallow. “But I can.” Thanks to her guidance, I managed a scholarship for undergrad, and a fellowship for grad school. Now I work for an international resort chain and have the bank account to match.
She breaks eye contact and shakes her head, mumbling under her breath. “You should be living your life,” she finally tells me as she wanders to a drawer in the kitchen. “Building a career.”
“I’ve done that,” I say softly. I’m not a billionaire, but I make enough to send her groceries every week. Enough that I cover her medical bills for all the testing she’s been through, and enough to cover what comes after her mastectomy. Including a home health nurse and any experimental drugs she may need if the approved ones don’t help.
She waves me off. “Making friends, putting down roots.”
I frown. Because I travel to wherever my company needs me, I haven’t had to put down roots. They pay for my accommodations wherever I end up, so I haven’t had to buy a home or rent an apartment in years. It frees up money to take care of her, so I’m okay with not having a permanent home.
“Finding a partner?” She raises a brow and pulls out a stack of paper from the drawer she yanked open. She closes it with a bump of her hip and drops her document on top of the home health brochures.
“I’m fine on my own, I promise,” I insist. I’ve had girlfriends; I know how to date. It’s just not something I have room for in my life right now. Not with a new assignment and her surgery looming.
She jabs a finger at the document she just dropped. “You may be grown, but I’m still your mother.”
My eyes dart to hers. I can’t remember the last time she pulled the Mom Card. She used to do it all the time before Dad died. She was broken beyond repair when I departed. It still keeps me up at night, knowing I should have stayed. I should have done better.
“You need a partner,” she says firmly, tilting her chin to look me in the eyes. “Someone to be there for you and make new memories with.”
I bite my tongue. She gave up everything for Dad, and he left her behind to clean up the mess. That’s the thing about partners, isn’t it? Till death do us part?
But the spark in her eyes makes me so happy I could cry. She jabs at the papers again.
I sigh and pick them up. “What is this?”
She smirks, and I’m stunned by the glimpse of who she was before. “There’s a show filming in Atlanta. That’s an application.”
I flip through the pages. The show films from mid-July to mid-September, then airs several months later. “I have a job.”
“It’s a matchmaking show.”
There’s a determined set to her mouth, a seriousness to her gaze.
“I’m not going to be around forever, Kit.” Her words are soft, angling right between my ribs and straight into my heart, too tender for its own good. “And I want to see you settled before I go.”
“The doctors said you’d—”
She shakes her head once, firmly, as if she doesn’t want to hear it. “I don’t care what they say. You need someone in your life to be there for you.”
I clench my jaw as something in me long dormant wakes up. A distant memory rises to the surface: two bodies tangled in a tiny dorm room bed, a murmured I love you, and the promise of a future we never saw.
The long-suppressed echo of hurt gains a pulse, like it’s alive and breathing again. My gaze falls to the teetering pile of paperbacks on the end table by the worn-out sofa.
Mom always has stacks of thrifted books scattered around the house. Most are romances, and growing up I read quite a few. It was nice to read about people finding the kind of love that was strong enough to last forever. They gave me hope. That hope was tangible years ago, just before it sifted through my fingers like sand. Out of time.
I swallow, looking at the application in my hands. I’m being melodramatic, thinking for even a second that love will solve everything. Mom still has her surgery in front of her, and the results may be devastating. In any case, the heroes in all those books were the ones who saved the day. No one is going to save me.
“You’re a good man,” she says, growing serious. “You deserve to find someone who appreciates you like I do.”
“You show your appreciation by returning all the checks I sent to pay off your mortgage.” After she sent the last one back in shreds, I finally gave up. All I want to do is take care of her after I failed so miserably at it the last time. But she won’t give me the chance.
“Kit.” She puts a hand on her hip, like she used to when she was about to ground me when I was a teenager. “I need you to worry less about me and more about yourself.”
All I’ve done since I left is worry about myself. My phone rings on the table. Without thinking, I take a step toward it, but Mom’s sharp gaze stops me in my tracks. My fingers twitch as I fight the urge to reach for it.
The caller ID says it’s one of my bosses. Anxiety gnaws at me. My job pays so well because they need me constantly available. All the time. And after the move I pulled to ensure I got placement in Atlanta, the calls have increased tenfold.
Mom holds her glare.
I groan and pace into the living room until my phone goes silent. I pause to look at the Sears family photo with all of us she still has hanging over the sofa, shame washing over me. It really is remarkable how much I look like him. Staring at the photo, I murmur, “I do enough for me, Mom.”
“I’ll make you a deal.” Mom’s voice carries a bit of playfulness to it.
I slowly turn to face her and quirk a brow. “What kind of deal?”
“Fill out the application. Turn it in.” She tosses me a pen.
“And?” What on earth is she up to?
“And I will accept the help of a home nurse of your choosing without complaint.”
I scoff. “That’s it?” Applying to this stupid show doesn’t mean I’ll get picked. In fact, the odds are I won’t. I could even fill it out with some bogus information just to seal the deal.
“And don’t even think of being dishonest when you answer those questions,” she warns. When I give her a placating look, she snorts. “I raised you, remember?”
I finger the pages of the application and frown. What harm could it do, really? She’s only asked me to apply. I don’t have to actually find someone or fall in love or even be on the show. And, in the end, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to make sure she never had to worry about anything ever again.
“Fine.” I raise my hands in surrender, a smile tugging at my lips. “I’ll fill it out. And I’m setting up interviews for nurses starting tomorrow.”