Chapter 6
Chapter Six
OSCAR
The smell of pot roast fills the house as I toe off my shoes in my mom’s entryway.
For the last eight years we’ve had a standing Friday night dinner.
And, in all that time, this is the first week I’ve ever been tempted to cancel.
I love my mom more than anything, but in a town with a population of six thousand, she’s the last word in gossip.
I’d bet my truck that she’ll have had a call from someone who saw me and Freya together.
“Oz!” she yells from the kitchen. “How you doing?”
I move through the hallway, taking in the family photos—so dense on the wall that they almost obscure the rosebud wallpaper—and the familiar way the carpet compresses under my socks.
I pause by my favorite photo, touching it with my fingertip the way I always do when I’m home. My dad smiles back at me through the glass, helping a ten-year-old me hold up the fish I just caught.
I look so happy.
My chest constricts and I have to look away. Mom doesn’t need me showing up all mopey. I head to the kitchen at a fast clip, dropping a kiss to her cheek as I stand next to her by the stove. “Hey, Ma.”
“I’m doing a pot roast. I had chicken that needed using.”
“Smells great.”
“Did you have a good day?” she asks, doing a crappy job of hiding her smirk.
“Sounds like you already know,” I answer, crossing my arms. “Who called?”
She laughs. “Who didn’t?”
I sigh. I don’t even want to imagine.
“It was nothing. We just had coffee.”
“Really?” She narrows her eyes skeptically. “Thought you had coffee at home?”
“I needed to apologize for something.”
She turns, slowly, like something out of a horror movie. “Apologize for what?” She draws up to her full height, which puts her just under my chin. “Oscar Murphy, what did you do?”
I sigh. “It was nothing.”
“You don’t apologize for ‘nothing.’ Spill it, young man.”
It’s useless trying to hide anything from her. She’ll find out one way or another. I lay out the whole story, watching the crease between her brows grow deeper with every word. By the time I’m done, her mouth is pinched and she looks ready to drag me out by the scruff of my neck.
Instead she goes for picking up the dishtowel next to her and slapping me in the chest with it.
“Ow! Ma!” I yell, rubbing the spot she hit.
“I raised you better than that!” She takes another crack, this time catching my bicep.
“I know,” I practically whine, trying to shield myself with my hands outstretched. “That’s why I went over there. It’s all sorted now, you can put down the towel!” She’s brandishing it like a weapon, ready to hit me again at the slightest provocation.
“You’d better have,” she mutters, narrowing her eyes in a glare as she slings the towel over one shoulder. “Go set the table before I decide not to feed you.”
“How’s the open house going?” Mom asks between mouthfuls.
I finish my mouthful before replying. “Pretty good, we hit some roadblocks with the dunk tank, but now it’s basically smooth sailing.”
“Cat competition all ready?”
I huff out a laugh. Last year Birdie insisted on being allowed to add (and judge) a “Cat Competition.” It’s part feline beauty pageant, part meow-off, and all chaos. Nobody quite understands her judging matrix, but every cat in town gets trotted out for inspection.
“Podium’s ready to go.”
“You think there will be another brawl?”
Six months ago, two members of Joyce’s posse had gotten into it after Mary accused Sue of “illegal brushing technique”, whatever that means.
“Mack’ll be there to keep ’em in line.” He’d never allow anything to ruin Birdie’s day.
“And you’ve got all the vendors?” There’s something intent in her expression.
“Pretty much.”
“Is Freya doing anything?” she asks, trying unsuccessfully to sound nonchalant.
I look up, flattening my lips. “No…”
“Oh.” She shrugs. “That’s a shame.”
“Mom.” I roll my eyes.
“What?” She grins. “I’m just saying, maybe a craft stand would be nice.”
“We’ve already got everything set. There wouldn’t be space for her, even if she was interested.”
“You could make space,” she reasons, talking around a mouthful of pot roast.
“Mom, no. Just leave it, okay?”
“Fine.” She huffs. “Well, you should still ask her to go.”
“She’ll see the posters, she can come if she wants to.”
“But you should ask her.”
“What, like a date?” I give her a challenging look, not about to start this game.
“When are you gonna drop this?” She’s been trying to meddle in my love life since I was a dumb kid admitting to my first crush.
She once threatened to call Freya’s mom to try to set up a “playdate.” Thank God my dad intervened before it got that far.
“I’m not doing anything! I’m just saying, maybe it would be nice for her to come spend some time with everybody, get to know people a little more.”
“Why are you so set on this?”
“I thought you liked her?”
“I don’t know her!” I’m getting dangerously close to raising my voice with my mother.
“You used to like her.”
“What, when we were kids?” I ask incredulously. “It was over a decade ago, I’m sure she’s a very different person these days.”
“You told me, and I quote, ‘she is the prettiest girl I have ever seen, and I am going to marry her’,” she says smugly, using the line she pulls out any time she wants to embarrass me.
“Jesus Christ, I was twelve.” I groan. “And I think I talked to her a total of two times back then. It’s not exactly the stuff that strong marriages are built on.”
“I met your father when we were kids.” This is her trump card. My parents were elementary school sweethearts and it has her thinking that everybody can meet their soulmate while they’re still using safety scissors.
“Well, I bet you guys had more than one conversation back then.”
“Sometimes one is all you need.”
“Mom.” I draw out the word on a groan. Sure, after Freya moved away I spent a long time hoping she’d come back. But it’s been years. I don’t need my mother getting involved and turning this into something it isn’t.
“Okay, okay.” She laughs. “I’ll drop it, but you should still make sure she knows about the Open House. I worry about her holed up in that store. It’s been months, and I don’t think she has any friends yet.”
There’s a twinge as I think of Freya, spending all day alone in the store. Maybe I’ll just double-check that she knows about the event.
“I’ll drop her a flyer,” I grumble, hoping this can put an end to it.
“Make sure you tell Joni I said how pretty they are this year.” She nods firmly. Joni’s been handling pretty much anything that requires taste for the past few years. Left to his own devices, Mack would probably just put sticky notes all over town with the date and time scrawled on them.
“I’ll be sure to pass that along.” I huff out an amused chuckle, before a thought occurs to me. “When did you see them? We’re not sending Ryan out canvassing until the end of the week?”
“Really? Somebody must have dropped them by Doctor Bennett’s office. They were in the waiting room.”
My head snaps up, the pleasant, familiar atmosphere of dinner popping like a soap bubble. “You were at Doctor Bennett’s?”
“Yeah?” she says around her next mouthful, like she hasn’t just opened up a trapdoor beneath me.
“Why?” I snap. I know it’s probably nothing, I know that. But I can’t stop the panic that spikes at the idea of something being wrong.
“I’m fine, sweetheart.” She covers my hand with hers. I don’t realize how tightly my fist is clenched until she pries my fingers apart one by one. Her voice is gentle, the same low tone she’d use when I’d toddle into her room after a bad dream. “Just having a physical, you don’t have to worry.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask, the vice-like grip around my chest not budging. Is she sick? Did I miss something?
“Sweetheart, take a breath.”
I scrub a hand down my face, trying to pull in lungfuls of air.
“I didn’t mention it because it wasn’t worth mentioning,” she says softly. “It was an insurance thing. I just had to drop in, there’s nothing wrong with me.”
“I could have gone with you,” I mumble, sounding like a petulant child.
“But you didn’t need to.”
“Yeah, well…”
“Sweetheart, I didn’t want to worry you.” She tips her chin down to peer at me. “You know how you get.”
“I’m fine,” I lob back, not wanting to discuss it.
It’s happened more than once, the feeling of spiraling dread any time my mom’s health comes up.
She’s made her concern clear, even going so far as to suggest I see a therapist, but I don’t need it.
I have everything under control. There isn’t anything wrong with me, I just care about my mother.
“Okay.” She sighs, her voice resigned.
I make a note to check in on her again tomorrow, just to be on the safe side.