Chapter 5
Five
Sawyer
“That’s still not straight, sweetheart.”
I freeze on my way down the ladder, looking back over my shoulder. My mom’s gaze is on her phone, a glass of wine in her hand.
But apparently the lights are crooked.
Sighing, I spend a minute tugging at the lights I put up the other day, the lights I put up in the dark so I believed my mom when she said they were crooked.
In reality…she just needed some time.
Which I’m fine with—really, I am.
My mom doesn’t have anyone aside from me, so I’m all she has to call for help with her lights or to pick out her Christmas tree or check on her garbage disposal or take her car in for an oil change.
Ever since my dad died, all she’s had is me.
“What do you want for dinner?” I ask as I start to descend—the lights basically where they were before, but now with the added side dish of me fussing over them.
And Mom.
“I thought you had to go,” she says, her eyes—blue like mine—flicking up for a heartbeat.
But a heartbeat is long enough for me to see it.
The flicker of worry. The beat of longing. The anxiety nibbling at the edges of her vision.
I think of the stack of bills I need to pay, the contracts to review from my agent, the arrangements I need to make now that my prize for Bri’s youth center’s charity event has been auctioned off.
I think of Faye’s new book sitting on my nightstand.
Her signing event is just next week, and it seems only proper for me to actually read it since I’ll be attending.
But this is my mom.
And Christmas is in a week.
“I have time for a quick meal,” I say.
“Oh, good! Do you want me to make you that pasta you like?”
“The hamburger one?” I ask, even though I know exactly which recipe she’s talking about.
Because I’ve eaten it with her at least once a week since I was eight years old and she realized I liked it.
I still like it…kind of.
Could I do with something—anything—else?
Yuppers.
But Mom can make it easily (and, more importantly for tonight, quickly) so it’s a winner.
Plus, it’s pretty much the only thing she doesn’t burn consistently.
“Yeah, that would be great.”
She nods and starts to hurry toward the back door, wine sloshing over the rim of her glass. “Only”—she pauses in the doorway and something twists in my stomach—“I’m not sure I have ground beef.”
“That’s okay, Mom,” I tell her as I fold up the ladder. “You can make it without it.”
“Make hamburger pasta without hamburger? I can’t do that!” she exclaims, her tone bordering on hysterical.
I close my eyes, take a beat. “I’ll go down to the store and grab some meat. Why don’t you start boiling the water and getting everything else together?”
A nod that has the tension between my shoulder blades easing somewhat. “I can do that!” She whirls again, more wine sloshing over the rim of her glass. The door swings shut behind her and I lurch for it, making a mental note to clean it up later lest it becomes a slip hazard or stains the deck.
It shuts, but I manage to wrestle it open then to get the ladder inside and safely stowed in the garage.
When I’m coming back in to grab my keys, my mom jerks her chin over her shoulder toward a paper on the island. “I left a list for you, honey bun.”
My brows drag together. “I don’t need a list for a pound of ground beef, Mom.”
Her smile falters. “I just figured if you were going to the store, you could pick up a few more things.”
“Right,” I say. “Sure. I can do that.”
She frowns, and for a second, it’s my mom of old. The one who wasn’t gripped with fears and insecurities and…fragility. “You know that you don’t have to do everything I ask, right?”
“I know.”
But I’m not sure that either one of us believes it.
I snag my keys—and the list that’s definitely more than a few more things—then head for my car and the grocery store.
Thankfully, the run takes me less than forty-five minutes.
I get out, grab the bags and walk up to the front door, knocking so I don’t have to dig my keys out of my pocket.
But my mom doesn’t answer.
Nor when I knock again.
Stomach twisting, I drop the bags to the porch, practically tear my keys out of my pocket, and fumble as I unlock the door, wrenching at the door and rushing inside.
The house is empty. Quiet.
Like another time. Like another life.
Unanswered calls.
Silent rooms.
My mother gone with—
“Oh hey, honey!” my mom calls as I rush into the kitchen, panic twisting my insides. “Did you get my ice cream?”
I skid to a halt, my eyes burning, my throat tight, terror making my vision go blurry.
Then I suck in a breath, force it out slow and steady.
“Yeah, Mom,” I murmur.
She smiles…then starts to frown. “Where is it?”
And I realize the bags of groceries are still on the porch, my keys still hanging from the front door.
“I’ll grab them.” I walk out of the kitchen on shaking legs, manage to get the bags and my keys and to bring everything safely inside, digging out the beef so hamburger pasta can be completed.
I stow the ice cream in the freezer so it doesn’t get forgotten and left to melt on the counter.
Then I put the rest of the groceries away, checking to see if there’s anything else she’s low on.
Probably, I should have done that before the run to the store.
But I’m not exactly running on all cylinders.
I’m tired and haven’t been sleeping great.
My stomach rumbles—well-trained to this form of sustenance by now—and I make a detour to clean up the wine on the deck.
Spoiler alert: it’s something else I should have done before the run to the store.
Regardless, some scrubbing gets it mostly out, and then I’m heading back inside, finding my mom serving up steaming plates of pasta.
“All ready, baby.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I say, snagging utensils and napkins and setting the table.
She brings the plates over as I slice the fresh bread I bought and pull some butter out of the fridge.
Then we’re sitting across from each other, eating the familiar meal, and I get another glimpse of the woman she was before everything changed.
“Did you see my new calendar?”
I frown. “What?”
She points to the wall where there indeed is a calendar pinned there.
A Grizzlies calendar turned not to December.
But rather to March.
Because that’s my month.
“Mom,” I murmur.
She reaches over, squeezes my hand. “So proud of my baby boy.” A nod toward my plate as she reaches for her fork, starts to eat. “Get chewing, kiddo,” she orders and the glimpse of my mom poofs away like so much smoke as she adds, “I need you to help me change a lightbulb before you head out.”
I pause.
Then say, “Sure, Mom. I’ll change it.”
Because doing it will only cost me a few more minutes.
And not…well, not doing it could cost me everything.